


When a Man's an Empty Kettle

by Dorinda



Category: Almost Human
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Consent, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Time, Free Will, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Post-Canon, Prosthesis, Robot Sex, Robot/Human Relationships, Robots, Science Fiction, Sex Robots, Undercover as a Couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 03:46:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 40,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2798411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dorinda/pseuds/Dorinda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn't like John minded going undercover with Dorian. No problem posing as Dorian's owner. At a private sexbot show. Where he would have to...Oh, <em>shit</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When a Man's an Empty Kettle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dreamiflame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamiflame/gifts).



End of shift at last. John yawned his way through his latest report, dreaming idly of dinner. 

He winced a little when the ceiling speakers blared their usual "All synthetics report to charging stations"—now that he'd stopped using it as a noun, it was like he couldn't stop noticing it everywhere. He was just waiting for Dorian to maybe start lobbying Captain Maldonado, to see if she could get the contractors to reprogram the end-of-watch announcement. Now that would be awesome to behold.

Report finished, he leaned back in his chair and looked for Dorian. Maybe he'd want to catch a movie, and John could sneak in a yakitori takeout to eat in the theater. No, not yakitori, it would smell too good, draw attention. He could get a bag of fried mochi, that was good cold.

No Dorian still. John thought he'd been coming in behind him. Maybe he'd gone down to the androids' locker room to grab something, say a quick halleluiah that he didn't have to stay down there overnight anymore.

"Hey, John." Maldonado came up and half-perched on his desk, carrying a bag. 

"Hey," he said. "Heading out?"

She gave him a smile he recognized. 

"Not heading out," he said.

"Nope."

"Heading over here to talk with me."

She slid off the desk and gestured with her head. "Let's walk."

John followed her, wondering if he'd done anything especially bad lately. He didn't think so, but sometimes that was when you'd been the worst. Not that the only reason they ever talked off-hours was for yelling—but there was a tension in her smile and in her shoulders, and he felt like something was coming.

She took him to the little conference room, the comfy one where they sometimes sat and had a drink, or where he'd change channels on the work screen to catch the soccer. Before he'd even finished sitting down, she'd produced an elegant bottle from the depths of her bag. "Thought you might help me with some of this."

"Whoa." He didn't recognize the label; it looked old. "Well, sure. I can be a pretty helpful guy."

She poured each of them a glass of the stuff; it was a dark, dark amber, almost red. "Cheers," she said, settling in next to him. 

He slouched comfortably into his seat and sighed as the fragrance of the liquor rose to meet him. She knew how to pick 'em. He lifted his glass to her and sipped.

 _Oh my god._ The drink gently warmed the inside of his mouth, blossoming into a gingery smokiness that lit up every taste receptor he had. And some he didn't. Swallowing was like being wrapped in the softest blanket from the inside out. He coasted on it, marveling. He'd known her a long time and they'd shared a lot of drinks, but she had never...

Never.

He held the glass against his cheek, rolling its coolness in his palm, and watched her. "You okay?"

She did a shitty job of looking surprised. "What."

"Must be some pretty bad news for you to serve it up with frosting like this." He sipped again, very sparingly, making it last.

Her hawk's eyes sharpened for a second, but then she shrugged and took a sip of her own. "Maybe I missed your birthday."

"For my birthday you give me extra paperwork." 

She gave a half-smile. "Maybe I missed _my_ birthday."

He smiled back to her with his eyes, holding the drink under his nose to inhale the vapor, his breath fogging the glass. "Rough day, huh."

"You don't even know."

"Yeah. Maybe if I talked to my captain, she'd tell me."

She gave him that look, the part-exasperated part-grateful thing he counted on. It connected him to the time before everything went wrong, well before his coma, when he had so much energy to burn just figuring out how to prank Maldonado on April Fool's without getting written up. When his colleagues respected him. When Pelham was alive. When he had both his legs. When he was happy.

He took another quick sip to chase that spiral away. How bad could things be, anyway, when there was something that tasted like this in the world?

Well, wait. Maldonado had pulled something else out of her bag: a little admin-issue handheld jammer. She activated it and set it gently on the table. 

"Okay," John said slowly. "That can't be good." He had no idea who she even expected to overhear them; the station seemed to be going about its normal business. Journalists disguised as desk chairs? Super-spies in the ceiling?

Maldonado balanced her glass precariously between steepled fingers. "You know I had those meetings most of the afternoon."

"Yeah." Then he suddenly sat up straight. She looked so uncomfortable, so serious— "It wasn't about Dorian, was it? He passed his review board, they said he made it with flying colors!"

"His term extension is fine," she said.

"But?"

"No buts." She drew in a breath and leaned forward. "The meetings were with an office of the DHS's tech division. Synthetic security. They have a job for us."

He snorted and settled back. "Is that all? If I get a drink like this just for working with those guys, sign me up."

"It's not necessarily that simple, John. For one thing, the mission starts tomorrow. I know that's not much prep time, but it's what they gave us."

"Generous," he said. "Might even have a minute to pack some clean socks."

"The other thing is..." She swirled her drink, trying for relaxed but failing. "You have the option to recuse yourself without professional penalty."

"That sounds pretty official."

"It's right off the consent form," she said.

"Huh. I don't remember that part. Did they add it, uh...when I was out?"

She still looked uncomfortable, her glass apparently fascinating. "No. You haven't done this kind of mission before."

"Well, I mean, I've done plenty. So how deep a cover are we talking about here?" He had sudden visions of three-year stings, full record wipes, a new face, working his way up in the tech-stim trade.

"It's not so much the cover," she said. "It's the process requirements."

He let his slouch slowly deepen. "When you start talking bureaucratic, I know I'm in trouble."

"Yeah," she said without humor. "It means that you and Dorian would go under as guests at this year's Napier Conclave." 

"Conclave," John said admiringly. "Wait. Wait: Napier?"

She nodded.

"Like, J.L. Napier? Of _the_ Napiers?"

She nodded again.

"Nobody sees him. That's his thing, right? And you're telling me he has a conclave, like a get-together with actual people? 

"A secret one, yeah."

"Wow." He grinned. "I had no idea. Who would he even be willing to invite, unless he finally found some worthy contributors to his—"

She fully met his eyes at last. It sank in, much later than it should've.

"His sexbot collection," John said slowly.

"Yeah." She leaned forward and poured a little more liquor into his tilting glass. He started and automatically lifted it to his lips, but the taste seemed muted this time. 

"They want us to go under as...worthy contributors?"

"Kind of." Now her discomfort was looking more like sympathy, like she was watching him from behind a hospital window.

" _Kind_ of." He could feel an ache starting up in his lower back, but he stayed right where he was. "And I bet I know what they want us to contribute."

"I'm told it's a meeting, not a market. Like a showcase. Good food, expensive wine, everyone shows off the latest mods on their bots. No one's getting sold."

"I don't care! We don't even work in Vice—tell them to go through channels, tell them they're barking at the wrong cops."

"It's a little more complicated than that."

"Not for me." He tossed back a gulp, hoping for a solid and painful burn, but the damn stuff was so smooth it only tingled and deepened in the best of all possible ways. "Look, I know, okay? I know sexbots have been good for the sex industry, violence against sex workers is down by a hell of a lot, it's great. They're great. But that's what they were—"

 _Do you know where you were born?_ he heard Dorian say to Vanessa, so gently, the other android giving him a sweet, spontaneous smile.

"—What they were meant for," he managed. "It's their purpose. Dorian's not like that. He has—you know, free will, they call it a soul, whatever. It's not— we're not— I mean, for God's sake, he's not an MX."

Maldonado looked at him strangely. 

"You know what I mean," he said. The thought of the MX model with its smooth, empty crotch and its hard, calculator's eyes made him take another drink. "I know they couldn't use an MX, but why don't they get an actual sexbot for their— their _showcase_ and leave us alone?"

He remembered Lorenzo Shaw's showroom, the newest models standing on display, posing and preening. Everywhere, bare skin, scant clothes, a female design cocking her hip at him, a male stretching up languidly with one thumb tugging down his waistband. _We don't have to do anything if you don't want to,_ Vanessa said to him kindly. _You know, people look for connections in different ways._

" _No_ ," he said too loudly. "No way. I have the free option to recuse myself? This is me recusing myself." He held the glass with both hands, tightly.

"All right," she said gently. "I admit, I thought you might. And I understand."

"Okay." He relaxed a little, and shifted to ease his back. "Okay. Thank you." 

"Maybe you can still help me out." 

"Sure. Though, I mean, Paul came from Vice, don't you think he'd have the—"

"Yeah, about Detective Paul." She shrugged apologetically. "I know you two don't get along. But do you think he'd be a good fit with Dorian?"

"Uh—excuse me?"

"As Dorian's backup on the operation. Like you said, he knows Vice, so do you think—"

John lurched forward without meaning to, and found himself standing. Part of him hoped that his glass would shatter in his hand. "You said we didn't have to!"

That hospital-window look was back, and softer than ever. "I said _you_ didn't have to, John. Dorian has already agreed."

He opened his mouth, closed it again, then managed to say, "You're kidding."

"Nope. He signed his form."

"He can unsign it then!"

She shook her head. "He went into this willingly. He's already getting his undercover-mods done—he has to look refurbished, he can't have any active police-issue tech." 

John stared. "How long has that been going on?"

She just pulled out a document and handed it to him. He took it automatically, then felt stupid standing there trying to burn holes in her with his eyes, and sat back down.

The sheet was already keyed to his prints, fading in to reveal a red-bordered confidential file, and he flicked through the layers to skim the basics. Which were _very_ basic.

"Their intel were any sketchier, they could be artists," he said.

"You said it yourself: Napier. Nobody sees him."

"All right, I know he's richer than God, and almost as well-connected. But come on, am I supposed to believe that not even SynthSec can get in his drawers?"

She looked grim. "Apparently not." 

Flick, flick, flick. And the file was over. He thumbed back through, then shook it upside-down like an empty bottle. "Uh...okay, this is the gist on Napier. But what's the _mission_? What do they want from him?"

"Need to know." She took the sheet back and stashed it as it flickered to transparency. "There's a briefing in the morning; if you're going to help me hold down the home front on this, I can get you clearance. But first we need to find someone to go with Dorian."

"I can't believe you." 

"He's a police officer, John. He's a detective. And he's perfect for the mission."

"Which I don't need to know?"

"Which I can get you clearance on tomorrow." She finished her drink. "Paul does have a good record in Vice."

"I bet he does," John muttered. 

"I'm not knocking him off the list just because you two can't stop arguing."

He bit back an angry rejoinder and took a slow breath on a count of three. "That's not it," he said. "I'm not— I mean, yeah, I don't like the guy. But he can do good policework, and if you ever tell him I said that I'll deny it."

"Understood," she said, deadpan.

John fidgeted with his glass, watching it turn in his hand. "It's just—he's bad with Dorian. He'd be bad _for_ Dorian. He thinks Dorian's a thrift-shop piece of garbage." His voice felt uneven in his throat, and he clamped his jaw around it. Round and round went the glass, but Maldonado let the silence stretch.

"He doesn't...respect him," he finished at last. "I know, that sounds crazy."

"Okay," she said, and he looked up in surprise. "I said okay, you make a good case. I'll be the first to agree that riding with an MX is not the same as going on this mission."

"To say the least."

She tapped her fingers together. "What about Stahl? She knows Dorian, at least, and she doesn't seem to have any problem with him."

"No, she doesn't," John said slowly. "But..."

"Yeah?"

"She's an intelligence analyst."

"She's a detective too," Maldonado said sternly. "It's not like we have the staffpower to get too specialized."

"I know, yeah. She's good."

"And if I ever tell her you said that?"

They smiled at each other. "Okay, her, I might say it to out loud."

"Glad to hear there's someone on my team you approve of," Maldonado said dryly. "Then what's the problem?"

"Couple things. One, her undercover experience—"

"She went in with you once, if you remember."

He groaned. "That thing. That wasn't undercover, it was a half-hour's work. Has she ever gone into deep cover? Real cover?"

"No," Maldonado said, "but everybody has to start somewhere."

John leaned forward. "Two," he said, "she's a Chrome."

"What does that have to do with anything?" She was getting impatient. "Do I assign cases based on someone's genetic engineering now?"

"She's famous among the Chromes. Infamous, too, if you hear her tell it—" He waved his hand in the air musically— "the perfect homegrown ideal who ran off and went slumming. You want someone to recognize her once she's stuck in Napier's little shindig? Know she's a cop?"

"It's a big world, John."

"The Chrome community isn't. If one of them's there, even if they don't know of her personally, there's too big a chance they'll notice her. They get curious, they figure her out. It's a hell of a risk, if this operation is as need-to-know as you say."

Maldonado eyed him, her head tipped to one side. "Point taken," she said. "And who knows, she might even agree with you. If we had the time and the intel to vet all the attendees thoroughly enough, we'd get a safer line on the Chrome issue."

"But we don't."

"Of course not." She sighed. "And I have to admit, I'd hate to send her out while she's consulting on so many other cases."

She offered him the bottle again, but he shook his head. His glass was down to the dregs, fine droplets clinging to the inside in patterns.

"SynthSec must have someone suitable," she said. "Undercover experience, high clearance level. I'll make some calls."

"You'll make some calls?" he said, his voice bitter. "You're going to throw Dorian into some top-secret weirdo federal case and just leave it all up to them? They have no idea who he is—and did these guys ever even work with _any_ DRNs back in the day?"

"Well, John," she snapped, "I'm kind of against a wall here, so what would you suggest?"

"Someone has to watch Dorian's back! Someone who understands him!" He heard his volume rising again and knew he should get a grip, but his pulse was heavy in the sides of his neck and Maldonado's face was unreadable. Unreachable. "You people don't know— you can't just toss him out there for anyone to— He needs someone he can trust!"

"I'm doing my best to—"

"—And if that means me then fine! Give me the goddamn form! I'll sign it in blood if they want!"

He knew he sounded ridiculous. He bit the tip of his tongue and forced himself to shut up.

"You know, there are still a few good cops who aren't you, John." She said it neutrally enough, but he felt it like a jab.

"How many of them do you trust?" he shot back.

Her eyes relented. "Fair enough. But it's because I trust you that I think you were right the first time. You should help me at HQ."

"Talk about a waste of resources," John said. "We have the staffpower for that?"

"I meant it when I said you don't have to. Honestly. Dorian's the prime investigator here, and I know we can find a backup who—"

" _Give it to me._ "

She studied him. He looked at her as evenly as he could, as calmly, remembering with a cold feeling all the poker hands she'd won off him in their time. 

At last, her face gentling, she rifled in her bag for another sheet and drew a fingertip across it, lighting it up. He fingerprinted and authorized it with hard, angry stabs, his department-issue mugshot fizzing into being at the top corner.

"There," he said emphatically. "Now how's my need to know?"

She retrieved the original doc and entered code and prints, unlocking the rest of the file before handing it over.

"Huh." A quick skim didn't show all that much more to it. "I guess it won't keep me up all night."

"Gives you time to pack those socks." She smiled a little, but there was something tense about it. "SynthSec provides the tuxedo."

"What?" He thumbed to the materiel tab.

"You're in high society now. You and Dorian both."

"How the hell are we supposed to—" But he shut his mouth on the rest. When you won something from Captain Maldonado, that was a good time to collect your chips and get the hell out of the game. "Okay, okay. Briefing in the morning, check. Socks and tux, check."

"Get some sleep, John."

"Uh huh," he said, and made his escape.

 _That was a close one_ , he thought as he headed for his car, drawing his jacket collar up against the threat of more rain. His back was still a little achy. _I mean those feds would've made her let them pick out some stiff neck in a bad suit to go in there with Dorian and—_

He stopped in the middle of the road. Oncoming traffic honked irritably in three different keys.

 _Shit_ , John thought. _Oh, shit._

* * *

He signaled again at Rudy's door, poking the button in forceful rhythm. It'd be fair for him to jack the lock and go in, right? In case something bad had happened, Rudy would want—

 _"Sorry,"_ said Rudy through the door speakers. _"In the middle of something delicate here."_

John gritted his teeth. "Delicate sexbot mods?" He didn't even like to think about the options there.

The speakers were silent for a few seconds. Then the door hummed and clicked open, a dozen electronic security systems fading at once.

When John strode in, he saw Dorian on the table, shirtless, a swarm of complicated arrays connected to his head and neck and chest. He was wearing pants, though, thank God—a thin legging that tapered off at the ankle. His feet were bare, and John couldn't help looking at them, how real they were.

"So I guess she told you, then," Rudy said hesitantly, his eyes magnified through his headgear.

"Oh yeah, she told me. But hell, it's only the eleventh hour, right? What's the last possible minute between friends!" Rudy flinched, and John made himself take a step back. "Can he hear me in all that crap?"

"Sure," Rudy said, "absolutely, yes. Tip-top. I'm just, I'm giving a redundant sweep for the last of the cop-tech—course, there's some a black-market refurbish might still have, and we want him to be a cut above the best remodding, but the—"

John went around him and leaned over the table. "Did you sign that thing?" he demanded of Dorian's chin, just about his only visible feature.

"I did." Dorian's voice was calm, muted under the tangle of wire and glowing filaments. "If you're referring to the mission consent form."

"Good guess—now what the hell is going on?"

"I can't tell you much," Dorian said. "The dossier is strictly need-to-know, with a security designa—"

"Well I guess I need to know now!" John said. "Check your files."

Dorian was silent a moment, then John saw him smile. "You're coming with me?"

"I suppose. For lack of anyone better."

"I'm glad," Dorian said. "I didn't think you would."

"Maybe I'm doing it just to prove you wrong." 

The smile remained, curled up more on one side. "Whatever your reasons, I'm glad." 

He sounded so sincere that the back of John's neck prickled with embarrassment. "Okay, don't get all excited. Instead how 'bout you explain why you didn't tell me."

"The security designation level was very specific," Dorian said.

Ordinarily those reminders of the rules were just irritating at most, but now John felt an unexpected, frightening surge of rage. "I'm your _partner_!" he shouted suddenly at the cloud of wires, cringing at the volume level even as the words left his mouth. _I cannot do that. Others have a better statistical chance of surviving,_ said the MX's hatefully-even voice as it stepped away, leaving Pelham there to die— 

"—Okay, wait," he said, pulling his thoughts back on track with a hard mental yank. "Wait. Just— look. You're not some autopilot, you don't run on rails. Not even rails made of security codes. You understand the nuances of rules and regs—I've seen you handle them before."

"That's true," Dorian said. "Although in this case, Captain Maldonado also asked me not to. And I feel I owe her. She's the one who brought me back on the force, and she's the one who..." The smile returned for a moment, then subsided. "Even if she hadn't, though, I might have thought twice before opening the subject with you."

The straightforwardness of that statement left John blinking. "Nice."

"For one thing, I've learned that you have difficulties with sexuality," Dorian said kindly, "and as this mission requires me to play a sexual role, I thought you might find it upsetting."

"I— What did you—" John gripped the edge of the table. "I don't have _difficulties_."

"Well, given your reactions when I tried to discuss the semen capacity of your testicles—"

"—Now wait just a second—"

"—a purely physiological fact—"

"Remember how my balls are not on the conversational menu?" John demanded, moving around the table to try to see Dorian's eyes. His shoulder whacked into something, and he looked up irritably to see Rudy, fingers resting forgotten on a complicated keypad, staring at him.

John swallowed. The silence was heavy, underscored with the thinnest hum of processing electronics. "Are we done here?" he said finally.

"Uh, almost?" Rudy answered. "Almost. Just a few..." He played a rapid and elegant pattern over the keys, not looking at his hands once. "I wanted to be extra-careful. In this kind of situation, Dorian runs the risk of being laid bare— Uh, bare, I mean, his interior systems, mod-chasers would love to scan him, you know. Get in deep—" He coughed. "Though I suppose also bare in the other, uh, other senses as well. I mean." He tore his gaze from John's, checked a gauge, entered a string of code, and tapped a key. "There we are, Dorian, all done. How d'you feel?"

Dorian considered. "It's...strange."

"That's how you know it worked." Rudy tipped his headgear up and set to work clearing the equipment and connections away from Dorian's chest. "You'll be missing those police systems, I bet. But when the rest of the DRNs got—" He paused, and uncoupled a heavy cable. "These were the sorts of nodes and subroutines that had to be removed."

"I understand," Dorian said. He sounded subdued. John moved back out of the way as Rudy continued disconnecting complicated sets of who-knew-what, revealing Dorian's chest plate slightly ajar. 

"Hold your breath," Rudy said encouragingly, adjusting the chest plate and triggering the interior and exterior seals. The glow and pulse of Dorian's elaborate systems disappeared behind his skin, warm brown and textured, pectorals and nipples and the arch of what looked like a ribcage. 

John turned away and busied himself coiling up a tangle of transparent wires. "How long ago did the captain tell you about the mission, anyway?" he asked. "How long have you been doing her this particular favor?" 

"End-of-shift yesterday."

"You had one day to become a refurb?" John couldn't make the ends of the wires stay put, so he tried to kind of tuck them under.

"Yes," Rudy said meaningfully before Dorian could answer, "and you're welcome. Serve you all right if I had let the SynthSec guy help me after all." He plucked the coil of wires out of John's hands, looking even more exhausted than usual. "But you know the captain. Not a big believer in trust."

"She has good reason." John glanced over and saw Dorian sitting up, liberated from the last of the tendrils. "You want to put something on? You'll catch a cold."

Dorian turned easily where he sat and pulled on the undershirt John had seen him wear in his old charging dock at the station, long-sleeved and close-fitting with his identifying letters on the front. 

"Captain gave me the briefing file," John said, "but there's hardly anything to it, locked or unlocked."

"Yeah," Dorian said, hopping down from the table. "It must have been redacted. That way we could show it to my backup even if they were from outside the division."

John scowled. "Could you share with your humble backup then, please, officer? I have to find out what the hell everyone's not talking about. Unless I'm just there to iron your tux." He eyed the shirt, abruptly uncertain. "You're—kind of in your pajamas. Do you have to get charged?" The DRN letters stretched across the top of Dorian's pecs, the outside letters curving with the swell of muscle. Or, John supposed, "muscle". 

"Not yet. I have time." Dorian nodded to Rudy, who was practically buried behind a machine mounted on a wheeled stand, unhooking it line by line. "Thank you, Rudy."

"Anytime," Rudy said, peering over the top. "Though, I guess we're hoping not anytime, this probably isn't what you signed up for. Or, you did sign up for it, that's true, but hopefully just the once will do it." He smiled uncertainly. "Go get 'em."

Dorian turned to lead John back to wherever his charging spot must be—John hadn't even seen it yet, Dorian's little nook in the depths of Rudy's mad-scientist-bachelor-pad.

"Detective," Rudy called. "You know I've made a bit of a... study of the sexbot industry."

"Yeah," John said, rubbing his forehead. 

"I can't say I know much about Napier's specific interests, granted— no one does— but if you need a consult or anything..."

"You bet."

He followed Dorian gratefully, the noises of Rudy's tinkering and tidying fading behind them. They passed a couple of closed doors and turned a corner into an alcove with a heavy velvet curtain hanging across it, a dark soft maroon in color. Dorian pushed the curtain to one side and stepped through into a shadowy room with a charging station glowing against one wall.

John was no expert in android charging requirements, but even he could tell that this setup was different from the one in the station basement. It was a single cubicle, for one thing, rather than the industrial rows full of MXs. It still had the support leaning back at a slight angle, but this time it wasn't a featureless black platform. Instead, the support was cushioned, like a repurposed bench, again a soft and pleasantly worn maroon velvet. The alcove held a chair and a little table with a lamp, and a few display pads flickered on the walls, cycling slowly through decorative images—abstracts, landscapes, even some portraits with that robust, chunky look of old paintings.

"Wow, this is..." He craned his neck to look at a pad mounted on the ceiling, right where a charging Dorian could see it when he first opened his eyes. It was currently showing a patch of night sky, but the kind John had never seen since his childhood fishing trips: depthless black and thick with stars. "This is really nice."

"You think so?" Dorian looked around at it. 

"Yeah." It was nothing like John's place of clear surfaces and electronic substrata and windows. This nook was small, dark, and encircling, but in a way that felt somehow warm and welcoming instead of constricting. It had a hushed, restful air to it, and Dorian, standing by the charger, seemed to fit right in.

"Have a seat," Dorian said, and John did before he realized it was the only chair.

"You're not going to stand the whole time, are you?"

Dorian pressed his lips together. "I forgot. I haven't had any guests." He disappeared through the alcove opening. So John sat alone in Dorian's room and kicked his heels against the chair legs, looking around. The display pads cycled and changed, hues and shadows dissolving into one another. A rapid flicker caught the corner of his eye, and he turned just in time to see a muted video clip among the images.

Crap, it was that local news thing, after John had gotten out of the bomb collar just as Dorian had spent the last of his power getting the bad guy. The newshounds were all around John, crowding in, cameras zooming and stabilizing, always centering on his sweaty, shocky face. Then the embarrassing bit, that had almost gotten him an official reprimand from up the ladder until Maldonado had gone to bat for him: a gurney rolled by fast, Dorian flat and unmoving on top, some ops crew rushing him to the emergency vehicle. And instead of being nice about it, or sidling through with care—or, you know, using his words—John just stared like the collar had started its countdown again, then shoved his way through the newspeople with both hands outstretched, knocking them back into each other like waves of toppling dominoes. He hated seeing himself onscreen, and it was a relief when the damn thing cycled away in favor of a painting of sunflowers. 

"Sorry." Dorian came in carrying a stool in one hand and a cleaning rag in the other. "Rudy was stacking some greasy equipment on it."

"You know, I gotta admit I'm surprised," John said as Dorian gave the stool one last polish and sat. "I guess I thought you'd be in Rudy's room. Like with, uh—" He laughed. "Bunk beds."

Dorian didn't smile. "I was, at first," he said. "In a charging station, not a bunk bed."

"I'm afraid to ask how it went."

"I meant what I said, John. I needed my own space. It wasn't just being surrounded by MXs that bothered me—though that didn't help. I suppose that the more I..." He looked thoughtful and absent for a moment, as if seeing something John couldn't. "The more I lived up to my design, formed my own bonds and attachments and experiences, the less I could stand being stored like a tool in a rack."

John eyed the charger. "Maybe you'd feel better if it was tipped all the way back. Like a bed."

"No, that's not what I mean. The charger doesn't matter. It's more..." Again that distant look. John wondered if Dorian would rather have been having this conversation in the car, like they usually did, where they could stare out through the windshield. He certainly would, if it was gonna have to get deep.

"It's more about autonomy," Dorian finished at last. "The MXs don't have it. They don't have preferences, or needs. They have their algorithms. First-order logic. They are tools, and good ones."

"Matter of opinion," John muttered, looking at a windblown seascape over Dorian's shoulder.

"The other DRNs. The ones who were deactivated."

 _The crazy ones_ , John's mind traitorously supplied, but he made himself nod.

"They lived in rows in that locker room. Hanging in racks, ready for requisition. But we weren't— I wasn't meant for that."

"You think that might be why they—" John waved one hand gingerly.

"Perhaps it contributed." Dorian folded his hands. "I don't know. But anything I can do to prevent it from happening to me, I have to do it."

His face had that drawn, worried, inward look it got whenever the topic turned to the rest of the DRNs. And yeah, that was heavy enough, that was plenty, without a windshield and without the chance of an op call over the radio to break it up.

"Hey," John said, breaking into a grin, "hey, nothing's gonna happen to you." He leaned to thump a fist on Dorian's knee. "Look at you, you're doing great! And you got out of Rudy's room alive, which shows initiative. I could put you in for a medal."

Dorian smiled slightly, though the furrow between his brows remained.

"No, really. Come on, you did a great job." John slung an arm over the back of his chair and relaxed. "It's a cozy place for a briefing."

And at that super-subtle change of subject, Dorian regarded him for a moment, then nodded and picked up a blank sheet from the table. A few touches lit it up, and John reached to select and enlarge an image from the first layer.

"J.L. Napier," Dorian said.

"I've never seen a really clear picture of him." John enlarged it some more and took a good look. He saw a middle-aged, blockily-built Eurasian man, hurrying across a rainy street toward a very expensive car. He walked with his shoulders tight and his fingers curled around empty air. "That takes some dedication, staying so far out of the public eye."

"And yet he seems famous, from everything people have said."

"Well, rumors, you know," John said, shrugging. "He's inaccessible, so people have no idea. And if people don't have an idea, they'll make shit up. All kinds of wild stories go around about what he gets up to down in his bunker or wherever." 

Dorian traced another page across the sheet. "His interest in sexbot modification seems accurate enough." 

John glanced at the page and saw some schematics he really wished he hadn't. "Look, level with me here. The captain said Napier won't be expecting to— uh, to buy you. That's true...right?"

"As far as the SynthSec intelligence goes, that's true." Dorian brought up another page, looked like a list of names with little inset images. "These seem to be some of his former guests and their prized bots. And all of the ones on last year's list still have the bots, even after attending Napier's showcase."

"Maybe there just weren't any worth buying last year," John said gloomily.

"In the invitation they managed to arrange for the mission-secondary's cover identity, there's no mention of the possibility of a sale," Dorian said. "Not even in a sophisticated, indirect sense. The focus is definitely on rarity and display." He went slowly and thoughtfully through a few more pages, and John was bombarded with pictures and video sales pitches for different commercial sexbot lines, up to the top tier. A couple of the bots looked a little familiar, maybe advanced versions from Shaw's displays, though now he was getting a much more...complete view of what was on offer.

"Yeah, okay," John said, shoving his hand in to flick the file to a new section. The overlapping video yammering stopped. "But what I really need to know is, what the hell are we after, exactly?"

Dorian found the right layer and enlarged a rotating image of a thin, gray, rectangular little object.

"I saw that. File says it's a...what, a computer chip?"

"Of sorts," Dorian said. 

John groaned. "I thought they left something out, or my copy blanked out a classified page or something—we're supposed to dig up something that small with his entire mansion to look through? Are they even sure it's in there?" 

Dorian seemed mesmerized by the bland little thing as it slowly revolved. "Apparently," he said, his voice distant. "They've already searched his other homes and vehicles through one method or another. This is the only place left, and the only place they can't get to."

"Without an engraved invitation to the sexbot soiree."

"Yes."

He watched Dorian a little longer. "And that's why they came to you?"

"To Captain Maldonado, as my superior officer."

John impatiently tapped his hand on the sheet and coded it off. "It still doesn't make sense, that they didn't just keep it to themselves and rent a really nice bot for the job. That means there's something you're not telling me. You, and the captain, and whoever these jerks are at the SynthSec office. And I don't mind telling you I'm getting pretty sick of it."

"We're not leaving you out," Dorian insisted. "It's just that this can't be committed to record. Not in any way. And the captain asked me to tell you privately."

"What could possibly be that bad," John said rhetorically. "I already have to find a needle in a haystack, while pretending you're a sexbot, _while_ wearing a tie!"

Dorian hesitated, squaring his jaw. John could already tell he wasn't going to like it.

"It's where the chip came from," Dorian said. "It's a vintage piece of technology, very rare—unique, in fact, as far as anyone knows. It has qualities like no other chip we know of, and some we can only guess at."

"Who cares?"

"I care." Dorian's eyes searched his. "And the captain. And you do too. This chip was handcrafted by Dr. Nigel Vaughn."

"Oh, God, you're kidding."

Dorian just looked at him, and on his face was that deep sadness that John had only seen once before, after Vaughn's escape, and that he couldn't even begin to imagine what to do with.

"Well it didn't just come out of nowhere, did it?" John grabbed for the sheet again and coded his way back in to stare at the complicated little thing silently turning. "Aren't there any of Lumocorp's R&D records, experimental reports?"

"Handcrafted," Dorian repeated bleakly. "It's believed Dr. Vaughn was hypothesizing a new and completely unknown prototype, after his completion of— of the DRNs. When we had already begun working for the police department, but before the..." 

_Disaster?_ John's head filled in despite himself. _Mass psychosis? And do you call an android's suicide a suicide, or is there some technological prefix?_

"Okay," he said. "So, before Lumocorp went bust and Vaughn created the, what's her name, the killbot..."

"The XRN." He noticed Dorian didn't dignify her with the personal name their creator had given her.

"Yeah. Before he vented all his anger issues into his XRN, he was still riding high on the DRNs. The only androids in the world with stuff like—what, free will, emotions, empathetic connection."

Dorian dropped his gaze, looking at the chip's image again—or maybe through it. "He was happy. He must have been so..."

"What do we think is on this thing?"

But Dorian just shook his head. "The few traces of evidence that do exist seem to confirm that it's more advanced than any of my technology. But it doesn't match anything from the XRN specs. And since Dr. Vaughn's departure with the last of the Synthetic Soul programming remnants, this is the only piece of his personal work we have. The only possible clue to his thought processes. Maybe even his plans."

"Could it help us find him?"

"That's what SynthSec wants, and they know that's what we want. What I want. So they came to us."

John sat back and looked at him. "To you. Primary investigator."

He wasn't sure how he felt about that. Dorian flickered a glance at him, of shyness or pride or both. "I guess so. Backup."

"Don't rub it in," John grumbled. "Never thought I'd find myself following you around, mopping up after you, cracking safes." 

"I can find it," Dorian said, and the light moment suddenly vanished. He clenched one fist tightly in front of his chest. "I'll recognize it. Anything of his, I would know it."

John poked at the file awkwardly. Dorian was practically glowing with sincerity, and John ducked from that brightness, feeling it narrowing in like the blue-white nucleus at the tip of an arc welder, burning a hole through him skin and bone.

"Yeah, okay, easy there," he drawled. "Let's get in first, see if we can even make it through dinner without getting our covers blown."

"I think I look adequately refurbished," Dorian said. "My provenance is in the last section."

John looked it over, getting a quick gist of Dorian's black-market history. "Boy, you're a rare one, aren't you."

"That was the bait."

"How about me?" John squinted at the last bit of the dossier, dissatisfied. "Not much here."

"Well," Dorian said, "anyone could have been slotted in as secondary."

John gave him a stare.

"This will let you develop your own character."

"Swell." John tapped and coded the file shut. "I've been longing to give my acting skills a workout."

"You just want to wear your leather pants again."

"Hey! That was for work!"

"Don't think they'll quite match the Conclave's style, John."

"Shut up, can you please just—"

"Cheer up, maybe after hours."

John leaned forward and thumped his head on the table.

"Speaking of which," Dorian said, dropping the sarcasm—which he'd been getting far too good at, John thought darkly—"we should discuss our ground rules."

"Hm?" John turned so his cheek rested on the table's cool surface. "Like, don't blow our cover? Like which exit to run out of when he sets the hounds after us?"

"Like our schema of consent."

He sat up, rubbing his face. "Our what of who?"

"Sexual consent."

It felt like a very, very long silence, while he wished his face was still on the table, and in fact melting into the table and vanishing. Then he gave a little laugh. "I think our, uh—the schema?—I think it's just fine. No need."

"We gotta plan ahead, man."

 _Oh the colloquialism subroutine makes everything better,_ John thought. He gestured to the file, sitting there all blank and transparent and innocuous. "Enough to deal with right there, so, you know..."

Dorian just looked at him searchingly.

"...You know. Let's stay focused on the mission."

"Sexuality is ingrained into the mission," Dorian said. "Given my role, and our relationship—"

"Okay, we don't have a _relationship_."

"You own a very rare sexbot," Dorian insisted. "Sexbots by design are intended for—"

"I know. I know! What sexbots are intended for." He started fastening up his jacket. "I just don't think we need to draw up a blueprint. Talk it to death."

Dorian nodded, seeming to relent, and John drew an easier breath. 

Then Dorian said: "I understand. A discussion might not be the best use of our limited time." He stood up from the stool. "I don't have an actual bed in here, but there are still many things we could practice."

John forgot to blink. He forgot pretty much everything, in the white static blanketing his mind, but luckily his feet worked on autopilot and got him moving out of the room.

"Okay, well, g'night!" he called cheerily, barreling through the curtain and down the hall and past the main work area. Rudy popped up from behind a glowing patch panel and John flapped a hand at him.

The night air was cool, and the car was quiet. Thank God. He ate dinner at a gogigui joint near home with three different screens showing three different games. He packed a bag with socks and shorts and toiletry stuff and a collapsible charger-calibrator set. He took off his leg and set it to juice up and calibrate, and stretched out on a mat for a thorough runthrough of his PT exercises. He hadn't finished the whole cycle in a while, and ended up hot and sweating and honestly tired.

He fell asleep without needing any sleep meds, which was a pleasant surprise. But that night he had a dream that he was late for work and couldn't find his leg. It was exactly the same as the dream he used to have about school and finding his stylus, only now he was taller and shorter-haired and fewer-legged. It seemed to go on for hours, the familiar frantic grind of ransacking the place and trying to remember where he'd left it. 

The vintage station woke him with Elton John. "Rocket Man." 

_Zero hour, nine a.m._

He swore, his mouth feeling thick and gummy, and threw his pillow on top of the speaker.

* * *

By midday they'd been briefed, supplied with appropriately sleek wardrobes in expensive overnight bags, and transported in an unmarked stretch car to the private wing of the airport. John kept his amazed whistles to himself, but he couldn't help inwardly marveling at the money the feds were willing to drop on this weekend. Last time he'd gone half-ass undercover, he'd had to provide the leather pants himself.

They weren't alone for a minute, he and Dorian. First there was Maldonado, giving them a careful, private run through the file and discussing a couple different options for a bug-out if something went wrong. Then there was Rudy and some ops guy, giving Dorian one last thorough scan to confirm his remaining cop-tech was capped off or undetectable. Then there was the parceling out of the supplies, and the packing and repacking. He felt like they were being sent to summer camp, with an office full of anxious parents waving them goodbye.

Now they were being ushered from the car straight to a private jet, their bags whisked away, a very attractive attendant bringing John a scotch. He gripped the glass a little tighter as Dorian was led past him to the back of the plane, belting himself into a standing niche instead of being seated.

"I guess it's five o'clock somewhere," he said at last, grinning, and sipped it. The attendant laughed as if she'd never heard that before. John felt the gripe in his belly that he got when he had to keep his real remarks to himself, and figured that meant he was off to a good start.

The flight lasted for two scotches, two movies, and a multi-course dinner. John slowly finished his last red bean paste dumpling and realized he couldn't really remember what the movies had been about—he had a vague impression of a vampire horse, but figured he might be mixing them together. He'd been distracted by running over and over his cover identity in his head, what little there was of it. In setting up the bait, SynthSec had given out just a single initial instead of a full first name, presumably so they could give the job to anyone and create the first name later, but John couldn't help but wonder if their choice of J had shown some confidence in just who would sign up in the end. He hated proving them right, just on principle.

Someone was to his left, and he looked up to find Dorian there, released from his straps. "May I take your plate?"

A few different reactions warred in John's mind—relief, alarm, a deep longing to ask Dorian to please stop fucking around—but instead he just nodded. Before he could pick up the plate to hand it over, Dorian had taken it. 

"Thank you," Dorian said. "Would you care for some tea?"

 _Would you care for a parachute?_ John thought. "Yeah," he said. "Sure. Yes. Uh...Green."

Dorian took the plate into the galley area and shortly emerged with a steaming cup on a saucer.

"How's your back?"

John hastily lowered the cup before he could spill. "What?"

"Your back," Dorian repeated. "The way you shift in your seat indicates that the lumbar support has been inadequate."

"Who put you in charge of my—" John began defensively. Then two of the attendants returned from the galley and passed his seat, one giving him her practiced smile. "Well," he said. "Maybe."

"May I see to it?"

John put his cup down, the sound of delicate porcelain loud in the well-soundproofed cabin.

"Yeah, okay," he said evenly, wrapping both mental arms around the cover identity and pulling it down over his head like a thick, itchy sweater. He knew he shouldn't have waited this long to do it. 

Dorian moved to stand by him and put both hands on his shoulders. "Is the tension in the usual places?"

"Uh huh," John said, striving mightily to sound bored and matter-of-fact as Dorian tipped him forward to hold his weight easily with one arm around his chest. Dorian's other hand explored down John's lower back, pressing and kneading the muscles. He hit a sore spot and spent some time there, while John bit the inside of his cheek. 

"Perhaps a little more attention to your hamstring," Dorian said, tipping John upright again. 

"I _did_ my PT last night," John grumbled. He neglected to mention that he'd been skipping it three nights out of five, but he knew Dorian was sure to start in on him about laziness and percentile of tissue adhesion or some damn—

"As you say." Dorian smoothed John's shirt, tweaked a corner of his collar to lie flat. "Anything else you require?"

" _No_ ," John said emphatically. He took a breath. "Go...along." 

Dorian lowered his eyes just slightly, the corner of his mouth shadowed with a smile. Then he returned to his niche.

_Hanging in racks, ready for requisition._

John dug a blank sheet out of the nearby caddy and it flickered to life with bright scrolls of all the magazine offerings. He read a long article about jai alai, and a longer one about wristwatches. Then the jet was swooping in for a landing, and the loosened muscles in his back started knotting right up again.

* * *

"Thanks," he muttered to the servicebot as it opened the limo door. It was a skinless model, dull metal, with one central sensor array glowing in the middle of its...face, he supposed. He climbed in, and saw in the dimness four other people already sitting in the semicircle of leather seats. But before he could get a good look, Dorian had entered behind him and the car door closed.

"That must be it," said a husky voice. 

"I hope so," replied a higher voice, faintly musical. "Pardon me, but was anyone else on your flight?"

John, waiting for his eyes to adjust, felt Dorian nudge him in the side. "No," he said. "Just us."

"Good thing," said the husky voice. "Anyone else tries to fit in here, we'd have to cram the synthetics in the trunk."

John tried a rueful little chuckle of fellowship, and wondered if he was imagining the frosty stillness from Dorian's direction. Of course he was, of course—Dorian had been in character from the jump, and he must have been ready to be called a synthetic-as-a-noun, no matter how much he hated it.

"Oh!" the lighter voice cried disapprovingly. "You must be joking! I never would."

"Mine could take it, couldn't you."

"Yes sir," said a new voice, hushed and young.

"No, no," the light voice insisted. "So careless. Don't you want him in his best shape for the party?"

"My, uh—" John interrupted. "My invitation wasn't that specific. When is the party?"

A blue glow lit up the inside of the car from a sleek little handheld. The person poking at it looked to be a white guy, maybe in his mid-30s, with dark close-cropped hair and a neatly trimmed beard that emphasized his broad jawline. "Tomorrow night," he said absently, "if it's the same as usual."

"You've been here before?"

"No," the man said, sounding a little disgruntled. He let his handheld wink out. "I don't think he invites anyone twice. But that's what they say."

The car abruptly pulled away, smoothly accelerating. John tried to get a look at the other occupants, but the device's light had dazzled his eyes, leaving a glowing afterimage. He wasn't happy to learn that everyone else was as new to this as he was; he and Dorian didn't have a map or a floorplan, and now it was clear they wouldn't even have a regular visitor to pump for information. 

_Guess that's what you get with recluses_ , he thought, and stifled the urge to give Dorian a consoling bump with his shoulder.

The journey wasn't very long, and the last half of it was, as far as John could tell, entirely underground; they drove into a tunnel and never came out again, the road sloping increasingly downward. John had been idly thinking of Napier's estate as a bunker, and it suddenly felt like that was exactly what they were getting. It put a chill on the conversation in the car: despite being thrown together in the artificial intimacy of such close quarters, once the dimness turned to solid darkness, no one seemed to feel like exchanging even so much as a thought about the weather. John ended up mostly just savoring the scent in the air of fine leather upholstery mixed with a faint trace of subtle and expensive perfume, and wondering if the silent figure sitting next to him on the side away from Dorian was human or bot.

* * *

"Open, open!" cried a voice from outside, muffled by the limo's solid construction. "Let 'em out, for heaven's sake!"

Then the servicebot was there, throwing the door wide, and John followed Dorian out into a garage that would have been too much house even for him and a few friends. A long row of vehicles, mostly limos in subdued shades of black and charcoal, lined the wall. Next to the servicebot was the man from the dossier—stocky, big features and big hands, gray at the temples—but somehow in person he felt much bigger, alight with energy. He stood with his head thrown back and his body relaxed and expansive, nowhere near the scuttling, hunched posture of the photo. 

"My final guests! _Mes amis_!" Napier said, opening his arms as if he'd give them all one giant hug. "I'm so glad to see you." When he grinned, his teeth were slightly crooked; it seemed strange for someone so wealthy, who could've had them all replaced a hundred times if he'd wanted, but John had to admit they matched the rest of him, and there was something rough-hewn and kind of charming in the effect.

"Thank you for asking us," said the light, musical voice from the car, and now John saw it came from a woman, perhaps in her 50s or at least preserved to look it, with dark brown skin and very dark eyes. 

"Dr. Rao," Napier said, pressing her hands, and the way he said it was both a warm greeting and an introduction to the others.

"Vani, please," she insisted.

He beamed at her, and turned to the bearded man John had already glimpsed. "Mr. Braden," he said, and he reached out with both hands as he had before, only to meet a decisive handshake.

"Glad to know you, Napier," Braden said. 

Napier pumped the handshake firmly, his grin seeming to make it a playful thing, before swiveling to focus his considerable attention on John.

"And Mr. Campbell," he said. His hands wrapped around both of John's, warm and strong. "You know, when I came across your name, I only ever got a first initial. May I ask...?"

"Sure. Call me John."

"Like me!" Napier said, pressing his hands. "Except I'm Jonno, usually, to my friends. But we don't want a John and a Jonno running around this weekend, do we?"

John tried a grin of his own. "Oh, I bet we could handle it."

"Ha ha!" Napier's big thumbs patted warmly in rhythm. "We could, we could, I have no doubt. But should we?"

"Hey, I'm willing if you are," John said.

Napier squeezed once more then let go. "Splendid! That's the open-minded attitude I like to see."

"Well...thanks," John said. But even as he spoke, he could tell that blast of attention, the powerful charisma shining like a spotlight, had suddenly left him; Napier was turning slowly to Dorian, swiveling on his heel, as if drawn by an irresistible force.

"It's true," Napier said. "You brought a DRN." Dorian stood, hands at his sides, dressed in the high-end sportswear the mission suppliers considered appropriate for travel. He returned Napier's searching gaze with thoughtful calm.

"Yeah," John said, after a pause that felt awkward in his head—he was still too used to Dorian handling his own introductions. "He's called Dorian."

"Dorian." Napier's voice caressed the word, and his eyes were sweeping over Dorian's every feature. "Welcome to my home, Dorian."

Dorian smiled, and gave a slight bow of his head. "Thank you, Mr. Napier. I'm glad to be here."

 _Not a lie_ , John admitted to himself. Not that Dorian couldn't, of course. _Dude went through a whole shift knowing about the mission without even letting on_ —

It seemed to take Napier a lot of extra force to turn away from Dorian and back toward Dr. Rao—or Vani, if her offer extended to all of them. But his powerful hospitality seemed to carry the day, and he regarded the tall man next to her with his same single, eager attention.

"May I introduce Joseph," Vani said proudly.

"Hello, Joseph," Napier said heartily, though without the deep feeling that had flooded his voice with Dorian. Joseph, who was almost as dark as Vani, had broad features and hair in many small braids, drawn up behind his head with a band. He smiled at Napier, and Vani took his hand in hers.

"And Mr. Braden," Napier said—was John imagining the almost imperceptible emphasis on the title, now that Braden was the only surname holdout?—"Who's this fine fellow?"

Braden gripped the shoulder of his companion, a slender young man a little shorter than himself. "What do you say to Mr. Napier?"

"Yes sir," the young man replied, and his was the hushed voice from the car. He was designed to look maybe around nineteen, with long, tan arms and legs and soft shoulder-length brown hair. His face was a racial mixture with full lips, high cheekbones, and sweet, sleepy eyes.

After a second, Braden shook the shoulder once. "What do you say?" he repeated.

"My name is Kir," the bot said. "Thank you." He smiled up into Napier's face. 

Napier tapped two big fingertips gently under Kir's chin and smiled back at him. "Good, good. Welcome, Kir. Welcome everyone! Let's show you to your rooms, and then the whole group will meet for dinner."

He turned and led the way, and behind them two of the plain metal servicebots retrieved luggage from the car and followed. John noticed Vani and Braden casting a lot of glances at him and Dorian as they walked into and through a series of cavernous, carpeted halls. Okay, the glances were mostly at Dorian; John figured he was just getting some splashback. But Dorian didn't even seem to notice. He walked at John's shoulder, quiet and attentive, and once when their eyes met he gave John a small, almost secret smile. 

John tore his gaze away, and concentrated on getting a layout in his head of this enchanted bunker of the plushy hallways. Hell, he might need to find his way out someday.

* * *

"Wow," John said mildly, tension gripping his stomach. What he really longed to say was "Oh my God this room is like ninety-eight percent bed", but in a ritzy place like this it was wisest to assume even guest rooms had security cams until you could prove otherwise.

The bed was absolutely huge, though, and John couldn't imagine where you'd get one that size mass-produced. It looked comfortable and marshmallowy in a pile of white duvets and pillows, and could fit five tall people without anyone feeling crowded. How did you even keep a bed like that in linen? 

Well, John reminded himself as he fled for the bathroom, you had a staff of servicebots, and all the money in the world for custom bedding and giant laundry machines. Maybe the covers got discarded after each guest, who knew with people at this level.

The bathroom felt much more reasonable. At least the toilet was regular-sized and kind of homey; John spent a minute poking at the touchpads, warming the seat and testing the menu of bidet functions. But he couldn't stay in there forever, and eventually he emerged to find all their ill-gotten wardrobe had been unpacked and two sets of dinner clothes laid out on the bed.

"Did you do that?" he asked Dorian uneasily. Dorian had already removed his jacket and was working on his shirt.

"A guest-attendant servicebot is assigned to this wing," Dorian said. He slipped out of the shirt and hung it up. He didn't have his DRN skintight on underneath, and John noticed that he actually had a faint trail of hair across his chest and leading down the center line of his abdomen. Nothing at all like the bare, stretched, slightly shiny look of the MXs. Not for the first time, he wondered about Nigel Vaughn and the detail of his designs.

"I helped, though," Dorian added. John blinked and looked up; Dorian was smiling with just his eyes as he unfastened his trousers. "I didn't think you'd enjoy a servicebot handling your shorts." 

"Yeah, uh...Thanks. Good job." John turned away and got changed as rapidly as possible. He hadn't had to wear a tux for years, but he seemed to remember the mechanics of it—all excepting the bow tie, of course, which wasn't even a civilized self-tying model but one of the hip old-fashioned ones that just hung there like a piece of cloth. Even though there were plenty of big mirrors hanging around the room (of course, the clench in John's stomach said), he could only muster up a lopsided bow that looked more like a dead moth.

Between two of the mirrors facing the bed was something like an empty closet, black-walled, with a black door hanging open. There were no shelves, no hanging bar. "What's this for? Hide and seek?" As soon as he asked, he started worrying it was for some kind of esoteric bot sex thing.

Dorian approached, mostly dressed, though his shirt still hung open to the breastbone. He looked impeccable, like a model just off work, or an international spy. "Oh, wow," he said. "Nice."

"What?" John demanded.

"Charger." Dorian leaned in and did something to a patch of the wall, and silver lines began to glow and thrum along the edges of the cubicle. It was streamlined and quiet, nothing like the chunky glowing jukeboxes at the station filled with MXs.

"With a door?" John moved the door back and forth. "Like cramming you in a coffin."

Dorian shrugged. "Maybe the lights bother people." He fastened up the rest of his shirt studs without looking as he admired the charger, then swiftly tied his tie into a perfect bow.

John sighed and undid his own tie to give it another whirl, but no go; it hung floppy and tilted, brushing the underside of his chin. If things had been a little more normal, John would complain and throw the tie around and maybe end up not wearing it. But— _Campbell_ , he reminded himself, _you have a high-end bot who tends to all your personal needs._ So without hinting or bitching or asking, he made himself just step up to Dorian and gesture impatiently to his neck.

To Dorian's credit, he didn't try a "Yes sir" or anything, just stepped close, took hold of the tie, and easily pulled it open. He gently tugged at the ends and slid them back and forth—getting it positioned, John assumed from the bottom of his well of formalwear ignorance. Then Dorian did something else, his fingers gently brushing against John's throat. John tried to hold still like a mannequin and stared at Dorian's brow, and as he did, he noticed the perfect imperfections of his hairline. The tight curls of hair looked neat but soft, and he had the slightest widow's peak in the center. 

"There." Dorian stepped back. John blinked and looked past him into one of the mirrors, and there was a neat, tidy, classy bow tie.

"All right," he muttered. "Let's head out."

* * *

A servicebot guided them to the dining room, or at least what must have been an antechamber or something, because John saw no dining just yet. He did see a couple dozen people mingling in pairs in the room, including Vani and Joseph and Kir and Mr. Handshake; most of the owners were carrying cocktails while the bots usually weren't. Waiting for Dorian to bring him a drink, he kept glancing across the room at a striking man with light, ice-blue eyes and prematurely silvered hair, cut close around a pale, intense face. He carried a sense of tightly-leashed authority, and John wondered if he might ever have met him on the force or heading some agency seconded for a SWAT mission or something. John was hurrying up contingency plans in his head, wondering if that meant they could take the chance of quickly recruiting another ally, when he finally noticed—the man held a drink in one hand and stood listening carefully to a conversation, but he never sipped from the glass. And finally, the person next to him in the group plucked the glass from his hand and drank, then put it back without looking. 

"Here you are." Dorian gave him a tumbler of something that smelled deliciously of bourbon.

John tried to imagine Dorian as his walking coaster. Convenient, if there'd been snacks to deal with. But he assumed Dorian would never let him hear the end of it.

"There are some really nice bots here," he said instead. He noticed a lot more people looking his way now that Dorian was back, looking and talking to each other and looking some more. Who could blame them: Dorian was beautiful, for one thing, with the old-fashioned clothes somehow perfectly suited to him, smooth and fine as a mannequin. But any of the other bots could have been mannequins. Dorian's face was alive, his gaze roaming curiously, his mouth sensitive with expression as he had his own thoughts and felt his own feelings. He stood out against the backdrop of the other bots like a dragon firework against a starry sky.

"I'm familiar with most of the underlying models," Dorian said, "but not all. And they've been extensively reworked."

Napier wasn't in the room; maybe he was off instructing the servicebots in tureen management or something. John was just drawing in a breath and preparing to mingle, when one more pair entered from behind a set of standing screens against the far wall. She was youngish, athletically compact, and fair, with her dishwater-blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. The bot escorting her was impeccably gorgeous, tall and rangy, a male Korean design with chin-length dark hair swept artfully to the side and a light touch of eye makeup. His shirt, more expensive than any John could ever imagine even walking past, was cut to cling to his tight, slim body under a wool coat of a modern plaid. Delicate golden chains hung around his neck, glittering against his collarbone.

"Wish I'd gotten a haircut," John muttered. But when Dorian glanced at him, he just shrugged. "Come on, let's meet the neighbors."

He started by wandering over to Vani and Joseph, since she'd seemed the friendliest. She still was, and she gladly introduced John to another guest, who was nice enough but kept looking at Dorian and getting distracted. Vani in her turn kept courteously regathering the conversation, holding Joseph's hand or adjusting his tie, smiling fondly up at him. The humans drank and chatted, the bots didn't, and then everyone circulated, but Dorian was clearly the very subtle man of the hour. He didn't draw open crowds, but gazes followed him from a distance, and up close it was clear John was just an accessory. John wondered if this was what it was like to marry a video star.

"If looks could kill," he ventured to Dorian during a brief lull in the mingling. "I'm hogging the most popular spot in the room."

Dorian smiled, but only with his mouth; his eyes and forehead were getting that solemn look he had so often. "I expect the DRN is a new prospect to them, for a sexbot."

"That guy Shaw said the new models are using some of your old empathy tech, though," John said. "They probably already have bots that can form bonds with them if they can afford it, right?"

"I think," Dorian said very quietly, looking a little troubled, "it's Dr. Vaughn's Synthetic Soul programming that makes them so curious. With the failure of the XRN line and of so many DRNs, and with the loss of the remaining samples, I would be one of the very few operable androids in the world with a claim to free will. And perhaps the only one with it not currently disabled." 

John caught sight of the newcomer and her Korean bot approaching, and patted Dorian proprietarily on the shoulder. "Exactly. That's why I keep you around."

"Evening," said the woman, with a friendly smile. "I'm a little late getting here...we haven't met." She stuck out her hand, and shook John's with a firm, cool grasp. "Angela."

"John." He caught himself more quickly this time and didn't wait, gesturing with his chin: "This is Dorian."

"Hi," Angela said to Dorian cheerfully. And then, she did what no one so far but Napier had done: she waited and listened to Dorian's reply.

"Hi," Dorian said, smiling. "It's nice to meet you, Angela." 

"Might be nicer if we could sit down and eat now," she said to him frankly, still sounding good-natured. Dorian considered her a moment, his smile lingering on his lips, and nodded slowly.

"I have to say, I've never seen anyone quite like your bot," John admitted. 

She looked up at her companion with obvious affection. "He's beautiful, isn't he. Su-min, this is John and Dorian."

"Hello," Su-min said with a shy smile and a bow from the waist, taking John's hand in both of his. He offered the same greeting to Dorian though without as deep a bow, and Dorian mirrored it exactly while saying something in Korean.

"I bet you'd appreciate some of this bourbon," John said to Angela. "Can I get you one?"

"How'd you guess?" she said. Then she cocked her head. "But don't you mean Dorian'll get it?"

John shrugged, feeling caught. "He has better things to do."

"I bet he does." Her innuendo was easy and somehow friendly, and for the first time all night someone's implications weren't creeping John out.

"Rocks?" John started toward the bar.

"Nah, nah," she called, gesturing him back with one finely-muscled arm. "Sorry. I don't actually drink."

"Oh."

"More for you, then," she said encouragingly, and they laughed.

John caught sight of Napier at the head of the room, regarding the crowd with a heavy-lidded smile. "Hey, there he is. Maybe that means dinner isn't far off."

"It usually does," Angela said.

"I thought he didn't invite people more than once."

She openly grinned at him. There was something very appealing about her, something forthright and daring. He could imagine her grinning like that from the saddle of a fast motorbike.

"Yeah, he doesn't," she said, and punched John's upper arm amiably. "Come on, Su-min."

Su-min gave another bow and a goodbye to each of them; Dorian again returned it, but John just kind of nodded and smiled as best he could. Then Angela was leading Su-min across the room, weaving deftly through the crowd, her ponytail bobbing and his long, lean form cutting a dramatic wake. John watched them both, his eyes narrowing.

"Dorian..." he began, but then Napier had his arms up for quiet and was speaking.

"Friends! Guests and friends!" he said, filling up the space easily with his powerful voice. "Now that we're almost all acquainted, it's time for the togetherness of the table. But first I wanted to officially introduce you to my creations."

"Yes," Dorian said quietly, answering the question John hadn't asked. "She is."

"My redesign-regender Su-min!" The audience applauded, humans first and then most of the bots, though some only after being instructed. Su-min bowed deeply.

"And my newest effort: Angela!"

John reminded himself to keep his expression easy. The audience sounded a lot less conflicted than he was, though, and over its cresting applause rose appreciative shouts. Napier gave a delighted laugh, offered an arm to each of his androids, and together the three of them turned and led the way through a set of double doors that swung grandly open to receive them.

John wanted more than anything to turn to Dorian and say some of the things he was thinking. But this was neither the time nor the place, and Dorian was too famous for the privacy of crowds, so John just ended up walking in to dinner smiling and shaking his head admiringly and saying "I know, right?" to a bunch of excited strangers.

* * *

He knew his colleagues back home would laugh in his face for suggesting it was hard to sit down and start in on a seven course banquet, with servicebots at every elbow anticipating any human need (any need having to do with dinner, anyway). But it was. 

For one thing, he hadn't yet had any chance to cast about for likely storage places for the damn chip, which after all was the damn point.

But for another, after all the mingling and introducing and handholding going on, the bots weren't seated at the table. Each of them stood perfectly at ease behind their owner's chair, with Napier at the head of the enormous table and Angela and Su-min flanking him. John dug into the soup course moodily. Dorian didn't eat, but that had seldom stopped him from sitting on a stool next to John while John took care of some noodles, or at a table with a few of the squad while they had drinks. He participated in the conversation, he had questions or answers, he looked thoughtful or he laughed. He sure as hell didn't spread a napkin deferentially over anyone's lap, or kiss the back of anyone's neck after helping them with their chair.

But bots didn't need to sit down, did they? They didn't mind. They didn't even mind leaning in to pick up a single olive and feed it tenderly to someone, as Joseph was now doing for Vani. They did what they were made for, and who would want more than that.

Dorian whisked the soup bowl away and handed it to a passing servicebot.

 _Goddammit,_ John thought. But then he gritted his teeth and sat up straight. He was on the clock, and there was work to do. He forced himself to brighten up, and over the fish course he got better acquainted with the people on either side of him, while their bots stood silent and obedient in the glow of the candelabra.

* * *

After dinner they were ushered through yet another set of doors, into a comfortable lounging area with chairs, sofas, and little tables. Servicebots circulated with after-dinner drinks. The lights were low, and comfortably mellow music played in the background. It was sort of like the world's most fashionable and low-key cocktail lounge, if half the customers were bots and the other half oversexed.

John and Dorian ended up in a little group of chairs and couches near Vani and Joseph again, which was nice, and Braden and Kir, which was a little less nice. Not that Braden didn't know how to make conversation, but there was usually something aggressive or dismissive in his tone that kept making John want to let himself untie his temper just a little bit. Braden's favorite after-dinner sport besides ogling Dorian seemed to be contradicting Vani, but she seemed used to it and had no trouble batting his efforts aside. John suspected in the course of her life she had handled hundreds of guys like him.

"That's a great jacket," John said to both Vani and Joseph, eyeing the fine silk weave Joseph was wearing. If nothing else, this mission was working to give John a solid case of garment inferiority.

"It was always my favorite of his," she said, adjusting one cuff. "Handmade, and one-of-a-kind. Bespoke, you know. I was lucky Joseph left it behind when he and I got divorced."

A lot of thoughts ran through John's mind very quickly, including a few of the latest Supreme Court rulings, but nothing really resolved into clear speech. So he smiled vaguely and said, "Oh?"

She laughed lightly. "No no! Not this Joseph. Joseph my ex-husband."

"Oh, I see," said John, who didn't see.

Dorian shifted slightly in his position next to John's overstuffed chair. "I have to compliment you on your work, Dr. Rao," he said. "Adjusting a pre-existing design to so perfectly match a living human is extremely difficult."

"And potentially illegal?" she asked, unconcerned.

"That too."

"Ah, well." She took Joseph's hand again in her habitual gesture, and he clasped his other hand over hers. "I suppose that makes us criminals of a sort, doesn't it, my dear?"

"Of course not, darlin'," he said, and kissed the inside of her wrist.

John lifted his glass to them in a toast, trying hard to seem matter-of-fact. "Hey, I'm no one to talk," he said. "To criminality!"

Vani seemed thoroughly amused, sipping her seltzer and lime. Braden drank too, and leaned back on his couch. 

"I bet you had to pull a fast one or two to get hold of him," he said to John.

"Yeah, well," John said, shrugging. He didn't like the way everyone constantly stared at Dorian, like he was a video star or possibly an ice cream sundae. And right now he was kind of itching for his holster, missing the comfort of the straps across his chest. "How bout you?"

"Oh yeah," Braden said, self-satisfied. "Russian black market is nothing to fuck with. Oh, excuse me," he said faux-humbly to Vani, who only rolled her eyes. "Nothing to mess around with. They really didn't want to let you go, did they?" He pulled Kir down onto the couch and ruffled his hair, and the bot peered out from the mop of strands in delight.

"No sir!"

"But I got you, didn't I."

"Yes sir."

Braden ruffled again, and Kir relaxed against him, for once seeming thoroughly happy. If he was even one of the models with empathy technology, which John honestly had no way of telling. Hell, he thought, glancing unwillingly across the room at Napier, sitting on his own resplendent couch with his arms around Su-min and Angela—he couldn't even tell bots and humans apart at a cocktail party, so what good was he.

"Excuse me," Dorian said, leaning down next to John. "Would you like your lounging jacket?"

Oh, now what the hell. 

"Ehh, I guess," he said slowly, stretching. He thought for a moment. "And anything else I may need—use your own judgment," he said firmly, trying to give Dorian a good excuse for taking a while.

"Very well," Dorian said, and slipped out through the dining room doors. John hoped he'd been mapping the place so far, because the bunker was getting a little complicated for his taste. But Dorian was right and John knew it without them even having to talk about it: all the guests were in one place right now, the host obviously wasn't going anywhere, and everyone was relaxed and fed and wined and increasingly distracted. Okay, Dorian was famous, so it wasn't like he could vanish completely unremarked—but it definitely wasn't like John could wander around without servicebots tenderly servicebotting him right back into line. So sending Dorian off to pick up his—lounging jacket?—was their best option right now for doing a little scouting.

"Valet too, huh?" Braden said, but the normal push and shove under his words seemed to be blurring a bit, and John hoped he'd only get sleepier from here.

"Some," John said. He plucked two fresh cocktails off a passing tray and pressed one into Braden's willing hand.

"Well, I don't need that fussy crap anyway." Braden drank, considering Kir. "He has other jobs. Don't you."

"Oh yes sir."

John buried his face in his glass, his cheeks feeling a little warm. Everywhere he looked, it seemed like people were starting to get decidedly...friskier. Joseph had always been lightly demonstrative with Vani, but now he was stooping over her chair for a long kiss. Kir was nestling on Braden's shoulder, and Braden was running a hand through his hair. 

_Come back, Dorian_ , John wished desperately, feeling utterly stranded.

And then suddenly, twice as desperately: _No, wait—don't._

* * *

He had a pretty good alcohol tolerance, especially when he was cutting out the Membliss for the duration of the mission. But from that point on he started hitting the cocktails too fast for someone undercover, purely because it gave him something to do. If he was frowning thoughtfully at the glow of ice through bourbon, as if judging it for a contest, he couldn't accidentally see where Kir's hand kept wandering. Joseph and Vani were not as indiscreet, but they were murmuring sweet love names to each other between pecks on the face, and John felt just about as awkward witnessing that.

So he frowned ever deeper at his bourbon, _hmm, a good warm amber, glowing like toffee, I give it a 7_ and closed his eyes when he drank as if savoring it. But he still kept catching sight of people starting to get just a little too cozy for his comfort, and his body felt like it was jerking around between a fight-or-flight chill and a throb of arousal, like some kind of internal whiplash.

 _I'm putting in for Worker's Comp,_ he thought grimly, pulling his gaze away from a distant figure curling up on their bot's lap. But he looked in the wrong direction at precisely the wrong time, and saw Napier with his head arched against the back of his sofa and his eyes closed; Su-min nuzzled at his throat and toyed with a button on his shirt, while Angela murmured to them both and petted Su-min's hair. Just as John was about to drag his attention back to his glass, Angela glanced over at him. Her heavy-lidded, open-mouthed sexual heat seemed to fade instantly, and she gave him a friendly grin and a wry raise of the eyebrows.

John tried a return smile of some kind, and then Su-min moved up to take Napier's ear delicately between his teeth and Angela's face changed back. She snuggled closer in Napier's encircling arm and said something to them, her eyelids lowering, her lower lip shining.

The fight-or-flight spiked again, and seemed to be winning. John swore into his next drink. _This better not put me off bourbon._

"Here you are," Dorian said, and John jumped, slopping some of the liquor over his fingers. He turned to see Dorian holding a jacket or robe or something draped on his arm.

"Thanks." He thumped his drink down and held his wet hand awkwardly away, remembering he didn't own the outfit, but Dorian swiftly produced a handkerchief from somewhere. A useful one, not the silk pocket square. John seized it gratefully, looking up at him, and as soon as their eyes met Dorian gave the tiniest shake of his head. John wiped his hand slowly clean, mulling it over. Not like he had expected they'd be guaranteed a jackpot on their first try, but he couldn't deny it was fucking frustrating. 

He rolled the kerchief into a ball and looked up again. And suddenly the sight of Dorian, cloth dangling from his arm like the world's most overqualified maitre d', made his frustration spike. "Okay, fine," he said, standing. "Gimme the jacket."

Dorian smiled, but it was one of those polished smiles he'd been using since the plane. He reached to the buttons of John's tux as if he was actually going to undo it, but John stepped back. "I'm not gonna wear it. Just give it to me." He risked one more glance over the crowd. They were still just barely keeping it classy, most of them, risqué rather than obscene; it wasn't like anyone was undressed or hauling out the whips. But they were all undeniably heading in one direction, and they were taking their bots along for the ride. No one else was standing there having a jacket argument with their high-end sex toy.

"Can we go now?" John said through his teeth. 

"Of course," Dorian said urbanely. "The servicebots have turned down the bed."

John didn't say "Great!" or anything, because he didn't think he could manage it without sarcasm. He felt increasingly exposed, layers of tux notwithstanding. And to add insult to injury, now Dorian was looking at the rest of the room, his expression completely calm. John wondered if Angela would break off whatever she was up to now to give Dorian that same grin.

"Here." Dorian reached for John's hand, and John started, but he was only prying the damp kerchief out of it.

At first.

But after tucking the damn thing away, he reached again, without hesitation. He took John's hand in both of his, and his hands were warm around John's chilly one. John spent a long, frozen moment wondering about that, and wondering why he hadn't wondered before. MXs produced waste heat like any machine, but they weren't human body temp all over. He remembered Vanessa touching his synthetic thigh, pressing his chest through his shirt, but he couldn't recall if he'd known her hands were warm. They would have to have been, though. Surely it was an important design feature for sexbots.

"You're cold," Dorian said, and rubbed John's hand. John suddenly, wildly expected him to lift it, breathe warm air on it, looking up at John through his lashes. But he didn't. He just chafed some circulation back into the skin and then touched John lightly on the arm. "Let's go."

He linked their fingers together and drew John from the room. John gripped Dorian's hand, his eyes locked straight ahead, gladly letting the soft music and the little noises and murmurs die down behind them.

* * *

The servicebots really had turned down the bed. John thought it must've taken some air support and a grappling hook, but there it was, a vast white pillowy wonderland, the covers folded back in welcome.

As soon as the door closed behind them, he made himself let go of Dorian's hand. "I guess he's not a big one for privacy."

"No," Dorian agreed, but that was all. 

John turned his back and worked on the tux jacket buttons. And as soon as he had them undone, he felt Dorian's touch on his sides. This time he didn't jump as much, which should have gotten him some kind of award, because Dorian wasn't just getting a grip on the jacket to valet it the hell off. He was sliding his hands and arms around John's waist and holding the jacket's lapels, his body plastering to John's back, his mouth at John's ear.

"Surveillance," he whispered. "Cameras, sound."

John nodded jerkily, and tipped his head back. He remembered Napier even though he really tried not to.

"Mic's not sensitive enough to catch whispers." Dorian's lips brushed the skin of John's ear and made him twitch. "Old tech, in all the rooms. Not specifically for us."

Well, at least they didn't seem to be busted already, and they wouldn't have to try tunneling out or something. John tried to be thankful, but it was hard to concentrate. He knew they were going to have to talk about the mission and plan their next move. And that meant a shit-ton more whispering. And _that_ meant, in order not to look suspicious—

Dorian slipped John's tux jacket off and stepped away with it. The effect of both jacket and Dorian leaving his body at the same time made it feel like chilly air was rushing in. John fumbled with his shirt studs, head down, but his fingers were still weirdly cold and not cooperating very well. He'd never have thought he'd be so grateful for the return of Dorian's warmth along his back, and his hands sliding from stud to stud. They were long-fingered and flexible, the skin wrinkled across the knuckles and creasing naturally over whatever armature lay beneath. John knew there were complicated sensors in his fingertips, and wondered if they told him anything about what was going on beneath the studs and under the shirt. That wouldn't be very fair.

Of course, this was the guy who'd randomly scanned John's privates and decided he'd enjoy hearing a report on them, so it wasn't like fair was in his programming.

Dorian peeled off John's shirt. The warm hands trailed the fabric slowly down his arms and away.

"Right back," John managed, and headed for the bathroom, where he stood with both hands on the sink and did some deep breathing until his partial hardon subsided. Then he took a piss, washed his hands, and spent some time brushing his teeth with the floss and tartar attachments activated like a good boy, but that was about all the activity the bathroom could provide. He took the opportunity to strip himself the rest of the way, but he left his boxers on, because he was damned if Napier deserved that much of a free show. He adjusted himself to lie more comfortably; his cock was safely soft, but his balls felt kind of heavy and distantly achy from the evening's persistent low-level coming and going of the beginnings of an erection. 

He padded back with his clothes and shoes heaped haphazardly in his arms; Dorian, of course, scooped them away and had them all hung up, set out, or laundry-bagged in what felt like thirty seconds, while John busied himself with some abbreviated PT stretches. His remaining hamstring really was too tight. 

He could tell Dorian was undressing the rest of the way. He kept his mind on his exercises. But it was time for the leg to go into the calibrator, and for the rest of John to go to bed. 

So he did.

He lifted himself along the edge of his side of the vast expanse, leaving his detached leg hooked up against the wall. Dorian was already sitting against the padded headboard with the covers up to his waist, his hands folded in his lap, and John could almost have laughed. All Dorian needed was, like, a set of reading glasses and a glowing magazine sheet, and he could ask, "How was your day, honey?", and John would say—

"Feels good to lie down." He awkwardly tugged the covers over himself, and scooted sideways for what felt like a mile until he was near the middle. Where Dorian was.

"Long day," said Dorian. 

"Uh huh." John thought he managed to keep most of his feelings out of that one.

"How's your leg?"

"I think I got the worst of it stretched out." John palmed the back of his thigh and squeezed experimentally.

"Your other leg." 

"Oh, yeah, that old thing," he drawled casually. He glanced over at it and back at Dorian, who had his lips pressed in a faint, pleased smile. "S'good."

"No calibration problems?"

"Nope." John plumped a pillow and stuffed it behind the small of his back.

"Well, just in case, I brought along some olive oil."

John, buzzed and distracted and on the verge of arousal, had a sudden series of thoughts about that. He coughed. "Uh, no, seriously, it's doing great. Very fancy."

"It fits all right?"

" _Yes_ , mom, I told you."

Dorian plucked at the duvet. "Do you suppose... May I see the implant site?"

John didn't like the word "implant". It felt kind of gross and probing, like something the little green men would do when they abducted you. Of course, he'd come a long way—used to be he didn't like the implants themselves, either, and now he could go for a few hours in a row without even thinking about them much. He looked at Dorian, who had that hopeful face he got when he was taking something very earnestly.

"Yeah," he said.

Dorian peeled back the covers and reached for the right leg of John's boxers. He was not at all tentative, pushing the fabric up to get a good look at the stump with its grafted attachment sites, the complex mixture of flesh and machine that let John's leg meet and mesh with his body and his brain. 

"I see they chose the Adaptex platform socket," Dorian said. "That's a relief."

"What, you got a favorite leg attachment?" John was studying the ceiling, doing math problems badly in his head.

"If I did, this would be it." He was still holding on to the boxers, his hand resting absently on the very top of John's truncated thigh. "My scans indicated the measurements and cybernetic patterns, but not a precise make. So I had to guess." 

John's cock stirred; he was losing his battle. He started trying to remember some soccer stats. "What, uh...what scans were these again?" 

"You remember. Those biometric scans I did."

It was getting harder to actually think, at least with the big head. But John managed to keep himself from getting back into the unauthorized-testicular-scans-not-okay argument. For one thing, it didn't sound very in-character. And for another, Dorian had apologized. But most importantly, John absolutely had to try to stop thinking about the whole thing, because it was not helping. If anything even could.

Yeah, it was too late. His cock had swelled enough to nudge against the fabric, and he could tell it must be obvious without looking down. 

He cleared his throat. His face felt warm, but not entirely with embarrassment. He wanted to say sorry, but Campbell certainly wouldn't, not to his Dorian. And the question now was, what would Campbell's Dorian do?

Dorian was silent for a few seconds. Then he said quietly, "All right." It sounded half like some kind of judgment on the attachment sites, giving it his Seal of Approval, but it also had a gentleness to it. Like reassurance, maybe. John's embarrassment faded in the surge of arousal, his cock rushing with heat and with the awareness of Dorian's hand so close.

Dorian hesitated, his hand still on John's thigh, his fingers brushing against the connections. "Okay?" he asked quietly.

The dwindling remainder of John's conscious mind wasn't sure what the hell kind of a question that was—do the connections hurt when I do this? Do you get all hot over your _implants_?—and he rolled his head to give Dorian a stare. 

But Dorian looked so tense. His brows were drawn, and there was that furrow in his forehead. "Okay," John found himself saying. The furrow didn't quite disappear, but something changed on Dorian's face, something eased the tiniest bit. 

"Here," he said, and slipped his hand in through the boxers' leg to cup John's tightening balls.

"Shit!" John gasped without meaning to, his cock twitching and rising. He gripped the mattress with both hands and jerked his head back, looking at the ceiling again without really seeing it.

Dorian's palm and long fingers held him firmly, rubbing, giving the slightest of tugs that felt like it went right to the tip of John's cock. Then he uncurled one finger and pressed it just behind John's balls. John's cock jumped, straining against his boxers.

"Oh fuck," he said, and then faster, his eyes half-closing without intention, "Oh my fucking— Oh, God—"

Dorian slid his hand further up, the boxer fabric pulling tight, and took hold of John's cock. He stroked up, gently. Against the intensely hard, overheated skin there, his hand felt cool, but John couldn't care. And he couldn't stop talking.

"Harder," he said, hearing himself and not caring. He helplessly bent his leg and curled his toes as Dorian's grip tightened, his speed increasing. "Yeah, yeah, just like that— God that's good," and fuck the cameras, fuck the mics, fuck what's his name and his hideaway and his fucking recluse sex party show, he wanted this, he needed it— "Just— just—"

He came abruptly in a quick set of hard jolts, shivering through his balls and out of his cock as he pushed up fiercely into Dorian's hand. His entire body felt contracted like one single muscle, like a giant charley horse—even his face, his teeth clenched and his eyes squinted shut. Then he slumped backward and remembered how to breathe again, forcibly sucking in air and blowing it out, panting like a runner out of condition.

He dimly felt Dorian let go and pull his hand away, and he could feel the dampness spreading over his softening cock. For a minute he didn't even care, while his heart pounded and slowed and settled, his muscles loosened and melted. He could practically have fallen asleep, despite the sticky chill at his groin.

But then, inevitably, his brain started coming back on line, and with every reconnection and reawakening, he felt more alert and less relaxed. He remembered Kir, _Oh yes sir_ , he remembered Angela's wry grin across the room, he remembered the ex-Joseph's bespoke jacket. He remembered exactly how long it had been since anyone had touched him there, despite what he'd vaguely implied to Dorian. He remembered Anna: in his bed, John the little spoon and her hand warm between his two healthy thighs; in the alley, John in pieces on the ground and her face turning away. And he remembered last of all Dorian, his partner, who always had his back and who had trusted him.

The last of the good feelings ebbed as quickly as he'd ever known them to go. Even faster than after the first time he'd tried masturbating again once he was allowed home unsupervised: weak but intent, struggling against the feeling of only one heel digging into the mattress.

He had a lot of things choking in his throat, an acid jumble of sounds. But he couldn't even vaguely imagine how he'd put them into words and begin to let them out. Not to mention how much they weren't like Campbell, that fucking bot-banging asshole.

"Want some fresh boxers?" Dorian asked. He'd already moved over to his far side of the tundra and was climbing out. He wore a pair of boxer-briefs, a fine gray-blue, sleekly hugging the curve of his ass and the tops of his thighs.

"No," John said sharply.

Dorian's eyebrows rose high, and John could almost hear the half-dozen cracks he was longing to make about his partner's A) laziness, B) personal hygiene or the lack thereof, C) taste in underwear. But Campbell's DRN didn't stroll around busting Campbell's chops all day, undercutting his self-seriousness and his bad ideas, keeping him on his toes. John suddenly missed that intensely, with a heartsickness that he felt under his ribcage like a physical pang.

John slid to his own side of the bed, his arms still feeling a little weak. He leaned his way along the wall to the built-in drawers and turned his back to strip, even if that was ridiculous. He castigated himself as he automatically dropped the new boxers on the floor, hopped into the left leghole, and pulled them up—he hadn't thought to bring more than a couple pairs, for Saturday and Sunday. _And you were going under with the sexbots, John you genius!_

Of course, he could always have opted to sleep naked. Sure, that would be relaxing. He checked that the fly of the fresh pair wasn't gaping open and made his way back to the bed. 

They lay there next to each other for a minute, John shifting around and adding and taking away different pillows.

"Comfortable?" Dorian asked. This was definitely Campbell's Dorian talking, because there was no long-suffering dryness to the question.

"Yeah, very." And that was definitely Campbell.

"Want a back rub? I could do a little work on that left hamstring."

The thought sent a renewed warmth through the pit of John's belly and his soft, sensitive cock. Dammit. John yawned widely, and he hoped it looked natural enough, because he suddenly needed this conversation to end. "Nah."

Dorian shifted, reached to the headboard, and the lights dimmed off. For a second John was relieved, thinking he could just curl up and pretend to sleep and not have to deal with anything else tonight, but then he felt Dorian's hand on his shoulder. He didn't pull, or force, though God knew he could. Dude could upend a speeding van. He just left his warm hand there against John's skin. John wavered between enjoying it and wanting to make himself pull away, and it took a stupid long time for his actual brain cells to wake up and remind him, like a loud alarm set to go off at 3am: _ding-dong, work time! Remember that, John? Work? The whole reason for the whispering and the bed and the underwear in the first place?_

So John got the hell back to work. He scooted down and thumped his head onto the latest pillow and slung an arm blindly around Dorian's waist, or at least where he thought it would be. He got it pretty accurately, his hand ending up just above the waistband of Dorian's boxer-briefs. They'd looked good, well-made. Maybe John could get him a pack for Christmas. 

Dorian pulled John into an embrace, his lower arm slipping easily between John and the mattress in a way that neither John nor any of his previous bedfellows had ever managed for long. The problem was that in the long term the arm fell asleep, and pins and needles were not sexy. 

But Dorian showed no signs of feeling the pressure, although his arm felt comfortable enough to lie on, not like a metal pole or anything. He wrapped his other arm more closely around John's back and again his lips were against John's ear. John shut his eyes tightly.

"Did a quick map of all guest areas," Dorian whispered. "Most utility and servicebot areas. Full scan tomorrow."

John let out a hard breath. "Mm-hm."

"There are some workshops. Locked. Office, with an adjoining master suite. Locked."

It was hard to think, with his fingers resting at the edge of an elastic waistband, with Dorian's skin human-warm against his, and with the press of recent memory— _Oh yes sir_ — _Harder, just like that_. But he managed it, after a second. "I think I can get us in the office. If Napier can be there."

Dorian nodded against his ear. "The sensor in my hand...the one keyed to the chip's signature. Working fine." He moved slightly, and there was an honest-to-God trickle of air in John's ear, which triggered a full-body shiver and the rise of the fine hairs on his nape. He knew Dorian used air in some complicated capacity, and it was involved in his speech as well as his more general emotional expression, but it startled John on a very deep level he hadn't been ready for. 

"Proximity," Dorian whispered. "All I need. Not line of sight."

"Okay," John said, a little too loudly. "Okay."

Dorian hushed him gently, like an indulgent lover, and held him close. John's heart was thudding; it felt irregular and out of control. After a moment, Dorian whispered, "You all right?"

John wrestled with the pressures inside him as best he could, but it was like he couldn't find a firm place to stand, caught between wanting to crawl away to the furthest side of the bed, and wanting to grab Dorian and...and what, kiss him? He imagined the taste in a collision of memory and guesswork: the vinyl sourness of the CPR training dummy as he gave it mouth-to-mouth, the slick chill of the breathing tube they'd pushed into him at the hospital. Polymers. Olive oil. He thought he'd just nod and shrug it off, but instead he suddenly heard a small voice saying "Nnn-nn," and it was his.

One of Dorian's hands traced along John's neck, not so coincidentally concentrating on the pulse point. In the dark appeared a glowing tracery of cool blue, circulating under the skin of Dorian's temple and jaw as his processors analyzed. John didn't even want to know what was being scanned now.

"Stop that," he said audibly, unable to help himself.

The glow disappeared instantly. It was dark again.

"I'm sorry," Dorian said, just as audibly. Was he in character?

John racked his brain for something that Campbell would say. He had no ideas. What did sexbot aficionados say to their toys? Lie down? Go fetch?

Roll over?

He groaned softly through his clenched teeth. He'd pushed right past Maldonado's misgivings that he shouldn't and Dorian's expectations that he wouldn't, and now maybe he was seeing the light on that. Maybe they really should have sent Paul in, since word around the station said he enjoyed a casual trip through the android subset of the sex trade. But he could just see Paul grinning at Dorian, having a fine old time, _C'mere, bangbot_ , and his hand curled hard at Dorian's waist, almost digging his nails in before he stopped himself. 

"What is it?" Dorian was still speaking aloud.

John made himself pull away and shook his head against the pillow. "Long, uh—long day," he said in his regular voice. Let Napier hear that if he wanted: it was fucking true, for Kennex and Campbell alike. 

"Yeah?" But that was a question, not agreement. Dorian wasn't gonna let this go.

So he whispered casually—as if you could even whisper casually: "Just getting to me a little. All the..." He didn't have a good ending for that. Or really, he had about ten endings. But Dorian waited and didn't interrupt, so he just grabbed one and went with it. "All the acting."

"I understand," Dorian whispered. "Constant pretense can be wearing."

"Doesn't seem to bug everybody else," John replied dubiously.

"What do you mean?"

"It's just... they turn it on and off like a faucet. And you're still supposed to believe it's..." He shrugged.

"Oh." Dorian drew back slightly. John wondered what his low-light vision situation was. Funnily enough, it hadn't come up on the job yet. Then there was a soft rustling sound, and Dorian drew the covers high over both of them, all the way up over their heads.

It was dumb, getting such relief from a blanket fort, but just knowing he was out of the camera's eye for a minute let something uncoil in the depth of John's stomach. He sighed into his pillow. If only the duvet could be soundproof too.

Dorian moved closer against him, very slowly and precisely; something about his very precision felt apologetic. But from the outside, John figured they'd just look like two lovebunnies snuggling down under the covers.

"Thanks."

"Sure," Dorian said. Then he leaned in and whispered. "It might help to remember their histories, John. They're being true to their designs. They aren't...lying."

John stayed silent, thinking about Angela's face.

"And in fact, we're the ones who're lying," Dorian continued, his whisper measured and reasonable. "The definition of undercover—"

John made a scoffing sound, and he hoped the mics picked it up loud and clear. Then he managed to tone it down enough to whisper, "Not the point. Those people think it's real, when it's just bullshit." His temper suddenly flared at that, a surge of anger rising into his head and making him grit his teeth. A dangerous part of him wanted to say fuck the mission, just so he could raise his voice.

"I see," Dorian said slowly. Then there was silence for a while. John's flash of anger drained away in the peaceful stillness, and the tug-of-war inside him was successfully easing off as he made sure not to think about it. He actually felt a little drowsy at last, and maybe even was starting to get comfortable. Even if it was just oxygen deprivation from being wrapped up down here, he'd take it.

"John."

John grunted.

"I wish we had a schema set up." Even this quiet, he sounded thoughtful and strained. 

John turned his face into his pillow. _Harder, God that's good_

"John." More urgent, though still technically a whisper. John figured Dorian would be able to calculate the decibel allowances for these particular mics without even breaking a synthetic sweat. 

"Yeah."

"I'm not bullshitting you."

"Course you're not," John muttered quietly. 

"No, man. I mean—I'm not. For me...the way I feel for you, it is real."

John's ears took in the words and so, technically, did his brain, but it felt like it took a whole minute for the sentence to parse. He blinked rapidly, his eyelashes dragging against the pillowcase. 

"I wasn't going to tell you," Dorian eventually whispered, sounding subdued. "It became clear over time that despite my similarities to your preferred type, I was not to be your choice. But looking at how you reacted last night to the idea of planning our characters' artificial interactions, and now seeing how those other androids upset you... Well. This should help."

Was this how it felt when the straw broke the camel's back? Was that a cracking sound he heard deep inside his overloaded chest? It was hard to get enough air.

"Think you can sleep now?" Dorian asked, his voice rising into audibility. Sure, why not: a doting sexbot could say that sort of thing, in between fetching the drinks and trying on the jackets.

John clawed the duvet down off his head and thumped one hand clumsily along the headboard. The lights slowly came back up. Dorian emerged from the cocoon and looked at him, the tiniest smile tucked into the corner of his mouth.

The tiny smile vanished.

"Oh," Dorian said blankly. "It didn't help."

"Nah, it's fine," John said. "I'm fine."

Dorian searched his face, but the glow beneath his temples didn't start up again, so John thought maybe he wasn't being scanned. He grinned, controlling his breath as hard as he could. "Don't look like that."

Dorian started to reply but closed his mouth, as if he'd just remembered the cameras. As if he, chock-full of nanoparticle processors, had forgotten something.

"Don't you have to, uh, have to, get charged?" John said. "It's your big day tomorrow."

Dorian looked at him a moment longer, then sat up straight. "Yeah." He made moving all the way over to his edge of the giant bed seem easy. 

Once he was arranged in the charger cubicle, he glanced over at John. "Want me to close it?"

John cleared his throat. Dorian's boxer-briefs clung to the front of him as well as they had the back, the bulge at the fly firmly cupped. Their gray-blue looked silver in the charger's glow, and now the rest of him did too, bathed in ice-cool layers of light as the device cycled up.

"Yeah," he said hoarsely, hating himself.

The coffin lid closed. 

They both slept. Theoretically.

* * *

John woke early, if you could call it waking. He was used to all his windows, the daylight flooding in to help switch his brain back on, and of course here in the bunker you had no windows at all. He felt sludgy and uncomfortable, but he was awake, and he patted around on the headboard for the lights.

As he rolled out of the empty bed and headed for his leg, he heard Dorian's charger open.

"Morning," John said cheerfully without looking around. He managed to do the connection maneuver while standing up, and it attached and activated perfectly smoothly. A few exploratory steps and bends proved it was fully calibrated and ready for action, and it felt great. Dorian really had given him the best possible gift; he'd never been able to entirely rely on the one before, and you never knew when it was going to have joint trouble or go a little uneven on a bad charge. This one, he could trust. 

"May I use the bathroom?" Dorian asked, as John tried an experimental pistol squat, bending the synthetic knee deeply with the other leg held out straight. The stretch felt good in his hips, and the leg was strong and stable.

John wondered vaguely what Dorian wanted with the bathroom—he'd never followed him around the station's android locker room, he had no idea what the MXs all got up to down there. He knew they all had to be waterproof, he knew there were towels, maybe there were big bot shower parties.

But Campbell would know very well what his DRN did in its off-duty life. And John was determined to pull the tattered shreds of Campbell back around him and stop being such a fragile flower. So he waved a hand, giving airy permission. "Go on."

By the time he turned around, Dorian was gone and there was water running. Maybe John should've pissed first. He got his mind off it by doing one of the PT routines for balance, designed to do with the leg on. 

There was a tap at the door, and he came down on both feet with a thump.

"Yeah?" he asked cautiously.

The door swung open, revealing a servicebot. And in its wake was Napier, dressed all in white. "John!" he said, as if they hadn't seen each other for years.

"Morning!" John replied, grinning. 

"Sleep well?"

"It's very comfortable here."

"But the nights aren't long enough," Napier sighed with what might have been delicate innuendo.

"Well," John said, trying to match his tone, "we do the best with what we have." 

"But you hope there's coffee waiting in the breakfast room," Napier said. "And there is, there is. Run along quick and join us—I hope the breakfast will be to your liking." He patted John's upper arm. "After breakfast, we'll have workshop tours and orientation. Please ask if there's anything else you need—you want Dorian at his best for tonight."

"Yeah," John said. "I appreciate that, thanks."

"Of course!" Napier patted him again and turned for the door.

"Mr. Napier—" And as Napier turned, already waving deprecatory hands, John corrected himself. "Jonno. I'm wondering—could we see you later? On a business matter?"

"We?"

"Dorian and I."

"Well well." Napier eyed him with dawning interest. "Of course, both of you are welcome. I'll be in the workshops for most of the day, but there will be some office matters to attend to in the afternoon. I'll send my secretary."

"Thanks again," John said.

Napier paused by the door and looked across at the bathroom, then waved at John and left; the servicebot started stripping the bed in grand mechanical sweeps. As soon as the door closed, Dorian emerged from the bathroom wearing a towel around his waist.

"You just missed him," John said. "He says hi."

He didn't think he said that quite as genuinely as Campbell would have, but otherwise, he was doing fine. He kept his eyes off Dorian and headed past him into the bathroom.

* * *

After breakfast and copious amounts of really good coffee, they had to trail around in a big group after Napier, who gave them exhaustive orientations to all of the gizmos and gadgets in the various workshops. John was heartened to see the locked rooms being unlocked one after the other, though they didn't have the time or leisure for Dorian to do any proper scanning with his keyed sensor. He heard there'd be free time after this to get into the workshops and dig in, and that was mainly what kept him from chewing his fingernails off in thwarted frustration.

Dorian kept a pleasant, interested face on, and handled the star-struck crowds with grace. But John could tell from the rise of his shoulders that there were places he'd rather be.

* * *

After the tours, more food. After the food, more chat. But finally, _finally_ , Napier waved his arms and cheered them on, and people scattered.

The lounge in their wing was empty, but in the workshop they found Braden, already sitting down at a worktable to inspect some fist-sized gadget through a bench-mounted magnifier. Kir lay on a gurney nearby in a pair of running shorts, his eyes closed and his chest plate askew. 

"Fast work," John said. This workshop was the smallest but crisply tidy, with workbenches everywhere and inspection equipment on wheeled carts and cabinets lining the walls. He bet Rudy would have conniptions in here, like a kid in an electronic candy store.

"Uh huh," Braden said shortly without looking up.

John meandered along the benches and opened various cabinets, musing over the parts and tools inside as if he knew the first thing about what they were. Dorian followed him, trailing one hand over surfaces and reaching into drawers; his expression looked a little unfocused and his processor lights glowed and swirled as he concentrated on the proximity sensor.

"Looking for something?" Braden asked.

John turned around. Braden was watching him, the magnifier pushed aside. "Not really. Just getting my bearings."

Dorian passed by, his hand moving slowly over a series of chests full of little drawers labeled with numbers and symbols.

"I'm sure Napier can get you whatever you need," Braden said. "Though it's a little late to get into a major rebuild or anything."

"Yeah," John agreed knowingly. He hoped to God the show tonight wasn't going to involve explanations of exactly how they did their modifications. He'd have to develop laryngitis, or get into a fistfight or something.

Braden reached for the magnifier then hesitated, looking past John. "You let him just wander around like that?" 

John looked at Dorian. He was fully dressed, so that wasn't it. He looked great, in fact, in the sort of sleek daytime suit he never wore as a cop, the shirt's subtle blue pattern bringing out his eyes.

Dorian peered into a wheeled bin, tracing his fingers along the edges. 

"Sure," John said.

"All by himself?"

"Of course." Now he was starting to get mad. Would Campbell get mad? He didn't know for sure, but he unfortunately thought not.

"Well, I mean, what's he getting into over there?"

"Anything he wants," John said coolly. "Why not?" He forestalled a response by taking a couple steps toward Kir's gurney. 

As he'd hoped, this got Braden's eyes off Dorian. "That's far enough."

John didn't go any closer, but he sort of leaned, taking an interested look at the mysterious contents of Kir's body. This had to get the guy's hackles up as a collector and refurbisher, the prospect of John getting a free peek under the chest plate. Braden had no way of knowing that John couldn't tell the difference between designer circuitry and a toy train set.

"So how's he doing?" he asked, sounding insultingly bored. And hey, if he did have to have a fistfight tonight, he was grooming a likely candidate.

"He's fine." Braden grabbed a dustcover from the bench and whipped it open in the air like a bedsheet, letting it settle over Kir from head to toe. The silent, frozen silhouette under the cover, the outline of Kir's nose and chin and feet, it felt like the morgue.

"Great." John leaned against a bench. "He seems like a nice kid."

Braden pulled the magnifier back down.

"'Kir'. That sounds Russian. Did you name him yourself, or did the black market guys send him with a tag on his ear?"

"Do you mind," Braden said, wielding some complicated little tweezer-blade thing with a glowing pincer at the tip.

John liked baiting the guy, though part of him knew it wasn't very fair. But Dorian needed time to finish his sensor sweep, and John would poke Braden with sticks all day if necessary.

Sadly, it wasn't necessary any more: Dorian showed up at John's elbow, and John could tell this workshop was a no-go. So he wished Braden good luck and sailed out the door on his scowl.

Dorian led the way through to the next wing of the place, with its own comfortable lounge leading into its own workshop. John walked behind him trying to look supervisory. This workshop was a little bigger but also sparser, with fewer workbenches and wider, lower cabinets. One side was lined with racks of clothes and bolts of fabric, and the benches held sewing machines.

Vani was there, standing in front of Joseph, who was sitting on a workbench with his legs dangling. He had his sleeves rolled up, and she was running a little device slowly over one of his forearms. John gave them a friendly little wave and started wandering around the workshop and looking into things like an expert, trailing Dorian and his sensor behind him. Someone John hadn't met was toiling away on the wardrobe side, painstakingly checking the measurements of a tall, broad-shouldered bot with an angular face and a blend of gender designs. But no distraction seemed necessary; they were busy and absorbed, and Dorian was able to touch every single sewing machine without drawing attention.

Maybe halfway through, though, the workshop doors swung open and Napier strode in. 

"Well!" he said to the room at large, clapping his hands together. "Getting to work? Wonderful! If you finish up in enough time, you might want to take afternoon naps before the show." He winked at John. "Possibly not napping, not technically."

John gave his Campbell laugh. He hoped their host was just buzzing through to check on his visitors, but no such luck: Napier went to Vani and chatted with her for a minute, then crossed to the racks of clothes and fell into a discussion with the person working over there. And it wasn't small talk, either; there were measuring devices and little humming tools and animated back-and-forths among the fabrics. John would almost have felt comfortable striking back out on their trip around the room, except that Napier, with endless bonhomie, kept sticking his head up and beaming inquiringly around at everyone at random intervals.

Their tour was suspended, then. John wondered if they should duck out to another workshop and come back to this one, but then he imagined Napier making the rounds right behind them, arriving to see them doing more of their aimless-wandering-but-never-working. Eventually, a recluse was gonna get paranoid.

So he looked at Dorian, and together they both gave the faintest of shrugs. Dorian walked to the bench next to Joseph's and hopped gracefully up, swinging his legs.

"I can't believe you have anything to do to Dorian," Vani said, pausing in her work to admire. "He looks wonderful."

"Thank you," Dorian said.

"Well, you know," John said, trying to shoot Dorian a subtle stink-eye that would remind him John had no idea what to do with any of these gadgets. "Never hurts to check him over."

"Of course," she said. She patted Joseph's knee. "You want him to be well and happy."

"Yeah." When she smiled up at Joseph for a moment of their usual reverie, though, John glared at Dorian and tilted his head meaningfully.

"Here," Dorian said blithely, picking up a nearby gizmo, turning it on, and handing it to John as if being obedient. Like that would ever happen. John gripped the thing, glanced sideways at Vani with a smile, then looked at Dorian again.

Dorian held out his hand, palm down. John hesitantly touched the tip of the device to the back of his hand, and the little screen flooded with numbers in a colored graph.

"Looks good," he said to no one in particular, and Dorian gave one of his nearly-invisible nods. So John kept on checking out whatever it was he was checking out, very slowly, always aware of Napier's presence.

He was also aware, though, of Vani casting little peeks over at the device and its screen. He didn't get pissed off, like his pal Braden. But he did start worrying about Dorian's police-limited systems. Rudy had disabled them, but had he done enough? Vani was an expert; was there anything the scans would tell her that she shouldn't know? John frowned at the device, feeling helpless. It was the age-old question, would the cover hold, but now he had no way of even guessing, and it sent his adrenaline up in steady, tightening spikes. 

Following Dorian's subtle offers of his wrist, then his forearm, John tinkered along with his pretend routine. He went as slowly as possible, but after both hands and arms had been whatevered by the device, Napier was still there, and still observant. A couple other people came in and got to work on their bots, consulting with Napier and keeping him there. This was going to drive John nuts. 

"Allow me," Dorian said suddenly, and John pulled the device back as if he'd been expecting something. And what he got was Dorian bending his head and folding his collar in on itself, exposing the back of his neck. John followed his lead and started scanning there, stepping nearer. He could sense Dorian's warmth, standing so close between his spread knees. And he had a scent, faint and passing but unconsciously familiar now, something like the spark and scorch left by a keyhole saw. He wasn't breathing, per se. But John could feel the life coursing in him, the—he supposed it was the electricity or whatever molecular-particulate level his most crucial systems depended on. And it actually calmed John, being there next to him. Like being in the car, the engine thrumming and the dark rain pattering on the windshield as John disagreed with Dorian or Dorian surprised John, safe in their own little private space. He let himself put his free hand on Dorian's shoulder and just rest for a minute, while the device's screen rippled with numbers and colors. Dorian was calm, and for a little while so was he.

Then all at once, Napier was kissing cheeks and waving, making his way to the door. He pressed one big hand onto John's back and said pleasantly, "This afternoon?", and then he was gone. 

John let out a breath. He stepped back from Dorian, losing the last of that strange peaceful moment, and ostentatiously "finished" whatever it was he'd been doing. Then Dorian slipped down so they could wander along the last half of the room and let Dorian touch the rest of the cabinets and racks.

Nothing. Of course, John thought, as he followed Dorian to the third workshop. The more he saw the workshops and how open they were, all the guests helping themselves to parts and tools and clothes, the less he thought such a singular, special chip would be in there. But they had to check, in case it had ended up in a basket marked "unid. chips—misc." like a Picasso languishing in a thrift store.

This one was crowded. It was in the largest wing of guest rooms holding all the early arrivals, and they chatted and cooperated with each other and inspected each others' bots like Braden's version of Hell. Tools hummed, machines displayed complicated matrices of numbers and codes, and bots sat or lay on benches or gurneys, sometimes unnervingly answering questions or obeying commands without their eyes or chest plates or soles of their feet fully attached. 

On the bright side, that meant Dorian and John could weave their way through at will, and no one bothered to notice exactly what they might be doing, or touching. They looked at Dorian like they had last night, hungry and admiring, but then they let him go past and got back to their own work. No one asked why John was letting Dorian toddle about unattended. The energy in the room was light and friendly and excited, and even though John only understood about one word in twenty, he liked it. He also frankly liked that the bots still mostly had their clothes on. He'd expected sexbot-tinkering to involve a lot of work on the sex organs—if you called android parts organs, which he didn't really know—and he hadn't been sure he was ready for that. But all the work he'd been seeing had been on interior mechanics or exterior clothes, not the...plumbing. It was a relief. 

On the down side, there was no chip.

* * *

After a long and dispiriting day, they'd finally scanned almost everywhere, including the servicebot-utility areas. Dorian had handled those alone—even just approaching the doors brought at least two servicebots at a time to flutter about John and attempt to discern his needs, and he didn't want to make them bust a fuse. Or get a bad personnel review, or whatever.

It had to be the office or the master suite beyond, which made sense if you figured he had it in a strongbox or a safe. But those areas were still locked, and while John had a plan to get into the office, the other one was a little trickier. They'd have to wait until tonight, hopefully while everyone was distracted at the party after the show, and slip the locks. John didn't like catburgling, but he was looking forward to checking off the final search so they could get the hell out of there.

True to Napier's word, in the late afternoon a servicebot slipped up to John's elbow. It spoke with Napier's smiling voice:

"Mr. Campbell! My secretary will bring you and Dorian to my office for our discussion, if now is quite convenient."

"Thanks," John said hesitantly, though he wasn't sure if the servicebot was broadcasting live or carrying a recording. Now was more than convenient—now was absolutely necessary. He buttoned his shirt up a little higher and shrugged into his jacket, and followed the secretary-bot to a locked door. 

"Come in!" Napier said, standing up behind a stereotypically huge and grandiose desk. It looked to be made out of several enormous slabs of dark red wood, deep and sleek and mellow with age and polishing. If it was real, it was priceless, and John honestly had no idea how it had gotten into the bunker. Maybe the bunker had been built around it.

"Mr. Napier," John said. "Thank you for seeing us." He noticed the door to the master suite in the rear of the office. Metal surface, metal frame standing out from the wall. Wait. Was it—-?

"I know this is business," Napier said, stretching out his palms toward two cushioned chairs before the desk, "but I hope we're still friends, John."

"Sure, of course. Jonno."

"That's better." He settled into his own chair and rested his head back. "Would you like a drink? Tea? Coffee?"

"Coffee would be great." His earlier doses had worn off, and a little headache was blooming behind his right eye. That metal frame around the master suite door looked a hell of a lot like an advanced bio-lock scanner. Their lock-slipping devices couldn't handle one of those, not at this level. Shit, shit, shit. He hoped the office bore fruit.

Napier touched a pad on his desk surface and tapped a few things. "You look a little tired," he said cheerfully. "I'm sorry there isn't time for a nap...we'll be up a bit late tonight, if all goes well."

"I didn't really have a nap in mind," John said, crossing his legs.

"May I say I find that surprising?" Napier looked over at Dorian and savored him with his eyes. Dorian looked back at him with a small, pleasant smile, one hand stretched out casually on his chair arm with the sensor hand near the desk.

"I can see why," John said at his most Campbellish, flicking Dorian an appreciative glance. He really did look good, neat and cool with a slight rumple to the collar that made you want to fix it. Must have been from the workshop session. "But I can do that anytime. How often do I get to come here?"

Napier laughed. "That's true. I'm glad you find my conclave so stimulating, John."

"I'm glad you take the trouble to have it," John answered, which was actually kind of true. "We never would have met."

"And that would be a tragedy." But Napier was still looking at Dorian, and it was pretty clear just what the real tragedy would have been.

A servicebot entered with a huge tray, holding carafes and decanters and delicate little bowls of sugar and cream and spices. Napier poured John a cup, and then busied himself over a little drink of his own with froth on top dusted with cinnamon.

"A little Irish?" he asked roguishly, tipping a splash from a decanter into his own coffee. "The sun's under the yardarm."

"Over," said Dorian quietly.

Napier paused, the decanter still slanted in his hand. "What, my boy?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Napier." Dorian leaned forward and rested one hand on the desk. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

"No no. Tell me what you were thinking."

"There's a saying regarding the proper time of day to drink alcohol. It refers to the old sailing ships, which had horizontal timbers known as 'yards' mounted on the masts. In the latitude and hemisphere where this saying seems to have originated, when the sun had risen high enough to appear over the highest horizontal yardarm, it would theoretically be approximately eleven o'clock in the morning, and time for the crew's first issuance of rum. Under the yardarm would still be too early."

"Or too late, if you waited until the sun was going down on the other side," Napier said.

"Yes, sir."

"Yes," Napier said, fascinated. "Tell me something. Why did you correct me?"

Dorian lowered his eyes. "I apologize. I was rude."

"You aren't answering the question." Napier didn't sound angry. He sounded deeply interested; his voice, like his eyes, was hungry. "Why were you rude to me?" 

"Well..." Dorian looked at John uneasily. John caught his gaze and knew it was Campbell's Dorian. His own Dorian—or anyway, the real Dorian—had something in mind. 

"Answer him," he said firmly.

"It's the semantic drift, sir," Dorian said. "The meanings of words change in use and combination over time. It is inevitable in human language, when words are used in a species with short lifespans and imperfect data transmission. Not to mention the way humans are influenced by the power of connotation and imagery."

"I suppose we are." Napier sipped from his coffee and licked a trace of cinnamon-cream from his lip.

"But..." Dorian looked honestly upset. "Sometimes the drift completely detaches us from the denotation. It cuts the phrase off from its history, running the risk of leaving it groundless or garbled. And in a saying with such a clear and traceable lineage, that would be a loss."

Napier set his cup down without looking, and luckily hit a flat spot on the tray. "What are you saying, dear heart?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but...it bothers me."

"It bothers you," Napier echoed, his voice deep and awed. "It really does."

"Yes sir." Dorian stood and turned away, walking to the bookshelves. He leaned his hands on them and hung his head, a portrait of unhappy embarrassment.

"John..." Napier said. He drank from his spiked coffee again instead of finishing his sentence.

"Yeah, sorry about that," John said. "He gets upset about things."

Napier leaned back in his chair; the leather creaked. He seemed almost winded. "You have to tell me something. Honestly, now. Did you program in some disobedience? Like the Random Challenge subroutine?"

John saw an opening and took it. He looked over at Dorian and stood up. "Can we...walk a little?" he asked, his voice considerately hushed. "He'll need a minute."

"Of course."

Napier came around the desk and John took his arm, ushering him to the far side of the office. A huge globe stood there on a pedestal, glowing with its changing display, including dimensional holograms of the space stations in their orbits. John made sure they ended up on the far side, their backs to Dorian, and kept his voice down. He hoped he could give him enough time.

"So tell me," Napier said. "Is it based on something like Random Challenge? Some people enjoy the spice that adds to an intimate encounter. Especially when it involves...defiance."

"No," John said, enjoying another chance to be honest. "Nothing like that."

"I've read about the DRNs, or as much as I could find that isn't still classified. But I couldn't quite believe how Synthetic Soul might interact with the empathy layers. It's not just about reacting to a human's emotional state anymore."

John suspected Napier had managed to read a few things that were still classified, given his money and reach, but he kept that to himself. "No," he said. "He has his own."

"His own emotions." Napier touched the globe with his fingertips; layers of political and weather patterns rippled around him. "His own preferences?"

"Yeah," John said.

"His own disapproval." 

"Uh-huh." _Come for a ride in the car sometime, pal_ , he thought. _Watch how much he loves the way I work the radio._

"I've seen it simulated very well," Napier said. "I've managed it myself. You met Angela."

John smiled ruefully. "I sure did. You got me there for a minute, Jonno."

"Did I?" His eyes brightened, like John had brought him a present. "She's something special. But..." He seemed like he might be about to turn and give Dorian another wistful look, so John took hold of his forearm and gripped it, leaning closer. 

"I know it's none of my business," he said confidentially, "but maybe you'll tell me anyway: whose idea was it to have her pretend to be one of your guests? It was hers, wasn't it."

The brightness spread from Napier's eyes over his whole face, making the big, uneven features almost handsome. "It was!"

"So you must've done something right, right?" John squeezed his arm admiringly. "That wasn't any Random Challenge. She had an idea and ran with it."

"Yes," Napier said, basking.

 _And she loved it_ , John thought. _Having a human fetch her a drink was a blast._ "Well, my hat's off to you, Jonno. Dorian came to me with Lumocorp's programming already intact...mostly." He coughed meaningfully, the way a black-marketeer might. "But you made Angela happen yourself."

"I suppose so." He was clearly delighted. 

But it seemed like no power on earth could keep the people at this get-together from being drawn to Dorian, because even as John started to say something else, Napier finally peeked back over his shoulder. John looked in alarm, but Dorian was pacing back and forth by some portraits on the wall, wringing his hands.

"Hmm," Napier said. "It seems to take a lot out of him."

 _Yeah, right_ , was John's first thought. _Guy climbed an entire skyscraper at 15% power to save my sorry ass_. 

"But I suppose there are reasons the DRNs didn't stay viable." 

His pulse rate jumped, and he imagined punching Napier right in the mouth. But he made himself stay full-Campbell and just said, "Ah, he'll be okay."

"Good." Napier's host demeanor dialed back up. "I want you both to enjoy this evening." He started back for the desk, and John had to follow. 

"Dorian!" Napier said, approaching him with his hands out. "Please don't be upset, my dear. I have so enjoyed our conversation. Truly."

Dorian took his hands and looked up at him. "You forgive my rudeness?"

"Nothing to forgive. Please, please, sit down."

They all settled in their chairs again, and John sipped at his cooling coffee. Napier rotated his chair back and forth a few times with little pushes of his toes, smiling at Dorian.

"So!" he said. "I don't want to rush you, but there are things to do before the showcase. May I ask...what sort of business can I help you with?"

"Well," John started, ready to dredge up the cover-story he'd concocted.

But Dorian spoke over him: "May I?"

John stopped.

"He does business for you too?" Now Napier's cheer was sounding just a little bit dubious. 

"I asked Mr. Campbell to speak to you on my behalf," Dorian said. "But that was when I was afraid of you."

Oh, that was the right thing to say. Napier seemed to relax in his chair, his host smile warming into something more personal. "But you're not now, are you."

"No, sir." Dorian's earnestness made John remember the day he'd first come down off the rack. Before he'd ever updated his files. 

"That's good. You must never be afraid to tell me things," Napier said. "So, Dorian. What is it?"

John wondered that too, but sipped the coffee in a show of unconcern. Even cooling off it was still really good.

"I wanted to know the parameters for my involvement in the showcase."

"Parameters in what sense?" Napier asked. "If you mean rules, there aren't many of them: each of you will have your own five minutes on stage. No owners involved; this is to demonstrate you, not them. It's not a competition, so you mustn't worry. We're all friends here. We just want to share our achievements."

"Yes, sir. But I wondered... may I be involved in another bot's demonstration?"

John was running out of coffee, and with it ways to show his lack of surprise. He tried shooting his cuffs.

Napier frowned, but it was thoughtful, not angry. "It doesn't usually come up. Each owner may bring one bot, and therefore each bot has its own demonstration."

"I understand. And I don't want to break the rules. But... last night, I met Angela."

"Go on." 

"She's different from the others."

"Yes," Napier said. He sounded tremendously self-satisfied, like he'd been drinking from the cream bowl. 

"I said to Mr. Campbell, if a DRN were allowed to work with her, it would be a rare opportunity."

"The most rare." Napier regarded him. Dorian held his gaze, with slightly-widened eyes and apologetic brows. "Most...rare."

Dorian didn't gild the lily by heaping anything else on top of his request and the appeal in his face. John, setting his empty cup carefully back on the tray, admired that in a distant, crazed sort of way.

"John," Napier said at last, decisively. "I don't believe that rules are made to be broken. But I do believe I make the rules."

"You bet."

"And how better can I show my delight in getting to meet such an unusual creature?"

"Well, we really appreciate that, Jonno. The pleasure's mutual."

Napier of course was still gazing at Dorian, his eyes slightly unfocused as if he was daydreaming. "Reschedule yourself into the final demonstration, with Angela and Su-min."

"Thank you," Dorian said. "It's an honor."

Napier was about to say something else, surely some hungry pleasantry, when a chime echoed from the office ceiling.

"Good heavens!" Napier tossed back the last of his drink and clacked the cup onto the tray. "It's almost time! Run along now and dress for dinner."

"Will do. And thanks again."

All three of them went to the door together. Napier opened it and ushered John through, but put an arm around Dorian, who stayed inside. "We'll see you later, John."

"Uh, hey," John said, smiling uneasily. "Aren't we supposed to... you know..." He waved a thumb over his shoulder back toward his room.

Napier looked surprised. " _You_ are. But the bots have to get backstage. It's time for dinner."

"I know, but..." John looked at Dorian. Campbell's Dorian looked back at him peacefully. But for just a moment there was the tiniest shake of his head, or his eyes, or whatever served him for the smallest nerve impulses and microexpressions, and it told John two things: _no luck_. And _leave it_.

"But Dorian hasn't dressed up for the show," he said instead. "I don't want him at a disadvantage."

Napier laughed like a clamor of bells, his head tipping back helplessly. "Oh!" he said. "As if that were possible!" He hugged Dorian close to his side and dropped a kiss atop his head. 

John stuffed his hands in his pockets and thought, _Campbell_ , Campbell, Campbell. That kept him still; that, and remembering Dorian's orders. "Well," he said amiably, "Dorian hasn't done anything like this before. I'd like him to look nice."

Another chime sounded.

"Honestly, John, you worry too much. Not that I can blame you, with this treasure! But it's not a fashion show. Now run along, quick—dinner any minute. Dinner and a show." Napier smiled, but it was a smile with a backbone to it, and it said he was a very wealthy man who liked his schedules kept.

"Looking forward to it," John said. "I know you'll take good care of him. Now, Dorian: behave."

Dorian tipped his head obediently, but his expression was completely opaque. Napier, with Dorian socked snugly against him, strolled back into the office and under the metal door frame. A bio-lock scanner lit up and swept Napier from head to foot with a pale yellow light. The door unlocked, and he and Dorian vanished through it.

John went to his room to dress. He managed the tux again all right, and thought he might even be able to get used to it in time. But he tried over and over to tie the bowtie, sweating and cursing, and just got dead moth after dead moth.

* * *

In the end, he just removed his top couple shirt studs and draped the tie loose around his neck, as if he were already at the afterparty, or aiming for international-spy-hood like Dorian. And he went to dinner as slowly as he dared. John knew he shouldn't piss Napier off, especially not when he had Dorian behind a set of bio-lock doors. But John also knew: dinner and a show. If he could miss even one minute of the demos, it would be time well spent.

A servicebot caught him halfway there and escorted him, not to last night's dining room, but to the antechamber from before dinner. It wasn't an open cocktail area anymore, though. Now there were little cabaret tables scattered around where the guests sat in twos and threes, and a stage at one end with a door next to it. The door had been hidden by standing screens last night, and John noticed it had a bio-lock frame—a back door to the master suite, he assumed. Up on the stage, Napier, in an honest-to-God tailcoat, was making a few introductory remarks in the middle of a spotlight's crisp white circle. 

John didn't get seated with his same exact cohort of latecomers from the limo—Vani was a couple tables away—but oh, joy, he got to share with Braden again. At least sitting between him and Braden was someone new: a young woman in an elegant pinstripe suit, her short hair dark blue and so smooth it was nearly reflective. They exchanged friendly chin-raises, but there were no introductions. Mr. Napier was still speaking.

"And now that we're finally all here," he said with a wide smile, "we can begin. You'll be glad you waited, my honored guests. Almost as glad as I am to have you here. Tonight is a night for..." He gave a flourish of his hands, and the spotlight changed color to a luxurious red. "Surprises."

Someone started applauding, and it spread throughout the room, the energy and anticipation rising. Napier bowed, his hands clasped in front of him. Then the servicebots were setting delicate little soup cups in front of everyone, music began playing, and a bot emerged through the door and climbed the stairs into the light.

She was dressed, which John found kind of surprising. Given the topic of the gathering and Napier going on about how it wasn't a fashion show, he guessed he'd been expecting full-on hardcore nudity from the beginning. But she had on a gauzy dress and a blue scarf around her curly dark hair. 

"I am Terpsichore," she said. "Named after the muse of dance." She lifted one hand to her scarf. "The ancient Romans wrote of a muse born from the movement of water." With an easy tug, the scarf was free, and she lifted one sandaled foot in a graceful movement from the hip and knee. Then she leapt from foot to foot, and was off into a gentle dance of bending and gestures with the scarf always flickering overhead in one hand or the other. John didn't know the differences between kinds of dancing, but it looked really nice to him. He drank his soup and started to relax.

Terpsichore danced for only a few minutes, not long enough to get boring or anything. And he admitted to himself that he was enjoying the play of her body beneath the gauzy dress, her breasts brushing against the translucent fabric as she moved, her feet flexing and arching in the delicate sandals. A trace of sweat eventually shone on her temples and along her hairline, trickling down the sides of her face, smiling and ruddy with effort.

Wait a minute. 

Only then did John notice how many people at the tables were leaning forward, beginning to whisper and murmur to each other like an underlay of static behind a broadcast. They knew much better than John just what they were seeing, in the perspiration and the flushing of her cheeks. As Terpsichore finished and left the stage, the conversation noise rose for a few excited moments, and John saw two people lean away from their tables to exchange some vigorous opinions in sign. She'd obviously been a big hit. Those modifications must have been hard to do.

When the next bot stepped through the door, the room settled back down again immediately. Again, no nudity; the bot was a female Chinese design, and she offered a poetry recitation. John finished his soup, wondering what sort of mod was being shown off now. There was something special going on, from the stir in the crowd. Something in her speech, he assumed, or else why the poetry? Though maybe it was facial expression or body language—John would be first in line under the "non-expert" sign, so he just let them appreciate it, while he waited for Dorian to show up and hopefully get out from under Napier's arm.

With the next bot came the next course, steamed dumplings. John nibbled in slight, almost pleasant boredom and watched him play the flute. By now, his panicky gratitude for not having to watch live bot porn had subsided, and he was starting to be reminded of the time Pelham had corralled him into coming to one of Marty Jr.'s school shows. After a few more demos, in fact, he kept almost forgetting they were bots until they'd finished whatever their specific specialty was. Away from their specialty mod, they tended to give themselves away, whether with the harmonics of their voice, an awkwardness of speech or movement, sometimes a sort of blankness to their face or their eyes. During the demos, though, it could be a little uncanny.

He drank some tea with the last of his meal. The show was just about halfway over. Joseph had already performed, and John guessed his specialty was something about affection or eye contact; he'd performed an old-fashioned monologue John didn't recognize, saying it all to Vani, his face animated and loving and warm, without seeming artificial or staring. John had to hand it to her: Joseph didn't seem to have much conversation or vocabulary of his own, but his focus was total, and he sure seemed like a comforting guy to have around.

John perked up again when the show got to Kir. He was nice to look at, and it wasn't so stressful to watch him on his own without Braden. Kir climbed the steps with a shy smile, clutching a bag to his chest. The spotlight lowered slightly, and he peered trustingly out at the audience and knelt.

From his bag, he removed an enormous white dildo.

John's tea went down the wrong spout, and he spent a minute coughing it up through his nose. His blue-haired neighbor at the table pounded him helpfully on the back. When he reluctantly recovered, he saw that Kir, still dressed, was giving the dildo a thorough blowjob. 

John didn't know what mod this might be; his experience with what was baseline for sexbots was next to nothing. But he was definitely being reminded that this weekend was about sexbots at its base, no matter how well he'd distracted himself from it during the dancing and the music and the recitations. He thought of all the applications of the skills he'd seen, as Kir tipped his head back and sucked deep: the applications of sweat, flushing skin, mobile lips, control of airflow, even Joseph's laser-beam affection and warmth. All of it, it all had a place in the perfect sexbot, so someone just like John could forget who he was with. Taking comfort in a better and better simulation of humanity.

He watched the blowjob stolidly, his nose stinging from the tea. The climactic finale was an impressive deep-throat—impressive not for depth, because who wouldn't expect a robot to be able to swallow anything they were told to, but impressive as Kir's throat hitched and strained, like a touch of a gag reflex, and his eyes watered. 

John looked around for a servicebot, wishing for a triple bourbon.

The demos continued, each offering a different angle on the topic, and now at last the clothes were starting to come off. Nothing sudden, and everything with a purpose: a thorough examination of the hardening of nipples, both with cold and with stimulation. Advanced flushing of other skin besides the face, beginning with the sort of reddened chest John had seen on himself after a good orgasm. Rotation of the hips at human-realistic angles and pressures, as if constrained by ordinary ligaments and muscles appropriately stiff for different ages and body types. Lubrication of the vagina, contraction of the scrotum, elasticity of the anal sphincter, erection and softening of the clitoris and penis. All very interesting, he had no doubt. Some of the people at the tables were obviously enjoying the show in very physical, if subdued, ways, but he noticed distantly that he didn't feel aroused at all. It seemed like he wasn't even receiving unconscious stimulation from the sights and the sounds, his cock resting soft against his thigh. He was troubled, even beyond the building dread as the show ticked toward its inevitable conclusion.

The most recent bot had left the stage, carrying his clothes. The spotlight hovered, empty. Then slowly, the circle of light began to grow, cycling through all its rich colors.

The door opened, and up onto the stage came Angela, leading Su-min by the hand. Then Napier, leading Dorian likewise. The audience murmured and rustled in a wave of surprised appreciation, then fell into a reverent hush. 

Su-min stepped forward first. He bowed and began to remove his beautiful clothes very slowly, shy and eager at once. His body was long and slender, and the muscles weren't sculpted into the hard, blocky bulges John expected, the sorts of shapes that the video models had. Instead he had unexpectedly soft edges to his pectorals, and a gentle concavity to his stomach; his thighs were lean, but smoothly rounded. His body wasn't meant for a video ad, but, John thought helplessly, to be held, to rest your head on. It was the body and behavior of a tall, bashful young man who didn't pump his muscles or his stare up for photos, but who smiled and blushed, and gladly revealed his natural self just for you.

Naked, Su-min approached Angela and stood in front of her, his head shyly lowered. He peered at her through his hair expectantly. She took his hands and leaned up to whisper to him, but it wasn't a brief sweet nothing; she spoke to him steadily, her thumbs stroking the backs of his hands. When she finally let go, he stepped back from her, looking uncertain. She nodded reassuringly, and he moved aside and knelt, resting easily back on his feet. She smiled down at him.

Napier had been standing behind Dorian, his hands on Dorian's shoulders. Now he spoke into Dorian's ear and gave him a little shoo-ing push. It looked like Dorian was being slotted right into Su-min's spot in the show.

Dorian walked up to Angela and whispered something too quiet to hear, even with the entire audience completely still. Of course, John thought uncomfortably, Dorian would always try to set up a schema, even with a sexbot. 

She gave her lopsided smile and held out her hands for him to take. Slowly, she stepped close to him and kissed him lightly, flirtatiously, her lips barely parted. They were about the same height. 

John felt terrible. His face was hot, and his pulse was too fast. And he wasn't sure what his body was doing: as Angela—obviously driving this particular demo—kissed Dorian, and urged him closer, and guided his arms around her in an realistically unpracticed embrace, he felt answering clenches in his stomach, but there was nothing happening any lower. It was like the times he'd been too pressured or too distracted, or been with someone he wanted so badly that he totally froze up. 

Dorian ran a hand obediently over Angela's hair, then tugged at the ribbon holding her ponytail. Maybe it was meant to be a smooth single motion, but the ribbon got knotted or something, tangled in her hair, and she winced and laughed and did it herself. Her hair fell around her face, and she blew strands out of her eyes. He stroked her head apologetically, smiling, and she tapped his chin and kissed him again.

For a few minutes John tried to calm himself by pretending it was a movie. After all, this whole show was just performances, demonstrations, and he'd watched many more intimate things on video in the privacy of his own home. But... every time their mouths didn't quite mesh right, or her hair got in the way, or he tipped his head at the wrong angle, or they almost got the giggles, it reminded John how very much not a movie this was. It was real, far too real. 

_Okay_ , he said silently to Napier, who stood in the shadows behind the spotlight with his hands in his pockets. _Okay, you win, we get it, we see the point. You have all the nuances at the tip of your screwdriver. That's enough now._

But Napier's silhouette didn't move, and they kept on. She unbuttoned Dorian's shirt; Dorian held on to a fold of her dress and raised it slightly as he caressed her thigh. They were disheveled and hot with anticipation and lost in each other. At their feet, naked and rapt, Su-min sat watching them, his eyes wide. 

Finally, one of Dorian's hands cradling Angela's ribcage spread and flexed, brushing his thumb across her nipple; she gasped, and slipped her hands down over his ass, pulling him to her. He was breathing hard. Breathing hard. His mouth was open as if for more air, and his chest rose and fell against hers. People in the audience were watching and admiring, and he heard passing comments about pneumatics.

"Hold," Napier said, and took a step forward into the edge of the spotlight. It widened to accommodate him. Angela looked over Dorian's shoulder toward him, inquiringly.

"Dorian. Step back."

Dorian did so. The sleek suit trousers showed signs of an erection inside, and John ground his teeth, looking anywhere else.

"Dorian," Napier said dramatically. "Hit Angela."

Dorian looked back at Napier, his brows raised.

"Strike her. Hard."

Dorian turned to Angela again and said, audibly, "Would you like me to?"

"Don't answer that!" Napier commanded. Angela tucked her hands behind her back and, it seemed, her tongue into her cheek, looking at the ceiling. She almost seemed to be rolling her eyes.

"I..." Dorian looked from Angela back to Napier, and finally spread his hands. "I don't want to."

The audience whispered. They didn't seem excited, but familiar and appreciative; John heard the words "Random Challenge" from a nearby table, and someone was nodding.

"Do it."

Dorian's brows drew together. "No." 

The whispering built a little. John felt squeezed, like the air in the room was being pressurized, forced into his lungs.

"Dorian!" Napier said again. "Come here."

This time Dorian did, glancing back at Angela as he went. He stood in front of Napier and looked up at him, openly frowning.

Napier smiled down at him. "Now kiss me, my boy."

Dorian lifted his chin. "No."

"But I want you to."

"No," Dorian said, and now he sounded honestly angry. "I don't want to. And I'm not going to."

Napier's satisfied smile was fading to something neutral. Thoughtful. "But I ordered you to. If you currently have Challenge limits set, disable them. Then kiss me."

"Stop saying that!" Dorian's fists clenched. "I'm not going to. Not after what you wanted me to do to Angela."

The audience noise was building. There were questions and answers about argument limits and challenge protocols. Someone was thumping a hand on the table over something that sounded like "human-centric algorithm". John stared at Dorian, who looked so slight next to Napier's powerful, assured bulk.

"I see," Napier said. He looked out at the audience. "John!" he suddenly called, and John felt that like a hand reaching in his pocket, like it had swiped in past Campbell and grabbed hold of something inside John himself.

He tried to wet his lips with his tongue. "Yeah?" He half-expected some sort of "Take your bot and get out," and was looking forward to it. But he got something very different.

"John dear," Napier said, peering out at him through the light. "Command your bot."

Silence fell. Everyone was looking at him now. At least, everyone he could see: Braden was eyeing him with growing interest, the person next to him at the table was smiling so close. And even beyond them, and the tables around them, it was as if he could feel the attention of the entire room. More than pressurized now, the air felt thick—heavy, even abrasive, like water clouded with silt and muck. It sucked into his lungs and crept out again as he strained against it.

He looked desperately at Dorian, whose eyes were washed almost colorless in the bright spotlight. The line between his brows was deeply furrowed, as were the lines on his forehead. His hands flexed, his shoulders rose. He looked as tense and worried as John had ever seen him. John felt cold, his hands and foot stiff with ice, his stomach churning. He tried to meet Dorian's eyes squarely despite the distance. 

Dorian looked at him. Then _Dorian_ looked at him, just for a second. 

John rubbed a hand over his mouth and said steadily, "DRN. Kiss Mr. Napier right now."

"No," Dorian said. It was clear and decisive. He looked at Napier. "That's enough."

The crowd whispered breathlessly, and John heard amazement in it. 

John felt sweat trickling along the back of his neck and down his sides. His muscles were so tight they ached. Napier studied Dorian closely, and John waited for his inevitable reaction. He knew Dorian could defend himself, but he also knew it was a long, crowded way to escape to the front door.

Napier turned to the audience. And all at once, his stern face lit up into an expression of utter delight. His smile spread, his eyes shone with a deep, proud satisfaction. His spine was straight, his head back, like the circus ringmaster after some other poor slob has risked his neck in a quadruple flip.

" _Et voilà_!"

As if on cue, the audience erupted.

Cheers and shouts, applause, whistles, and underneath it rose a roar of conversation that John couldn't understand at all. The floor vibrated with stomping feet. He watched Napier say something to Dorian, regarding him with tender absorption. Dorian's face slowly relaxed, and after a moment he nodded.

Napier looked ready to say a few words, but the audience was still awash in applause and discussion, some people scooting away from their tables or getting up to talk to friends elsewhere. Napier obviously knew he'd lost them, and that wasn't his plan. So he strode into the center of the spotlight abruptly, raising his arms. Music began again and built to a dramatic crescendo; the spotlight narrowed on him, leaving Dorian, Angela, and Su-min only half-lit. 

"My friends!" Napier said. The audience settled down, but slowly and only partly. "Well, my friends. This is the end of our sharing. I'm sorry it has to end so soon."

They responded with a sorrowful murmur. John worked on unclenching his chilly hands, watching Dorian help Angela find her discarded ribbon.

"But in a very real sense, it hasn't ended, and it never will. You can gather what you've learned here, the ideas and the strategies and the dreams, and take them home with you. I hope—"

The applause started over again, building to thunder. Napier smiled and basked in it for a minute, patting his hands on the air self-deprecatingly.

"I hope," he went on eventually, "that you feel your time here was well-spent. And that you enjoyed my little surprise!"

Up went the clapping again, with whistles and howls. Dorian and Angela were side by side; Su-min still sat on the stage with his arms wrapped around his bare legs, Angela's hand lightly touching his head.

"Good luck, my friends," Napier said grandly. "Good luck with your creations. May they always reward you."

Sounded like a capping line to John. The audience thought so too, and started getting to their feet in rows and waves for a standing ovation. John had to stand up with them or be far too conspicuous. Napier grinned, and clapped back to them, and waved. It took fucking forever. And just when John thought everything was about to ease off, Napier stood up dramatically straight and stretched out his arms, and looked at the group of bots onstage.

Angela came to him first, with Su-min her nude, graceful shadow. Su-min tucked himself against Napier's side and Napier kissed his forehead. Angela stood next to Su-min, her hair neat again, smiling at the audience with that tinge of wryness in the set of her eyes and mouth.

Dorian was beckoned to Napier's other side, and Napier put a big arm around him and squeezed him in. He said something into Dorian's ear. He rubbed Dorian's back. Dorian smiled at the audience, a little too toothily. They shouted to him in approval.

At last, at last, the noise slackened, and the conversations started up again all around John. The spotlight irised in, dwindling, until it winked out. Napier patted Su-min on the ass and sent him toward his discarded clothes; Angela helped him get them sorted out, and held his shirt while he slipped his arms into it.

Napier, still clutching Dorian, came down the stairs and into the audience. People spoke to them both as they slowly moved around the room, and the crowd settled into a post-show star-struck mingling that felt eternal. John nodded at whatever his neighbor was saying, and then at something from Braden, who looked relaxed for a change, before they circulated away to more interesting people. John sat at his table and turned his empty teacup, fast and then slow, round and round. The slight dregs of wet tea leaves in the bottom made patterns.

When he next looked up, he saw that the rest of the bots had emerged from backstage and were filtering through the group to their humans. Vani hugged and fussed over Joseph as if he'd performed a whole play; the Chinese poet was actually picked up and swung around. Even Braden was happy, and whatever he said to Kir brought a wide smile.

"It's a big night for them," said a voice in his ear. He turned. Angela smiled knowingly at him, and Su-min bowed.

"Yeah," he said. His voice felt scratchy.

"Only time they find people they can trust. People as talented as they are, who know what they're talking about. Who understand what they're really looking at."

"Huh." John watched the crowd shifting and regrouping like pixels in a kaleidoscope. "How come he never invites anyone twice?"

"I don't know." She looked over to where Napier stood with Dorian, talking with someone, his thumb stroking Dorian's neck. "I could make a few guesses."

"Guesses?"

"Yeah?" She raised her brows at him mockingly. "That okay with you, Mr. Campbell?"

"Oh God, please don't." He forced a smile and tried to gentle his voice down to humor. "It's John."

"Well okay." She sat down, and tugged on Su-min's hand so he sat too. She leaned her elbows on the table. "You enjoy the show?"

He kept his small-talk smile on and glanced over at Napier and Dorian before answering. "It was interesting."

"So, no." 

The way she leaned, the way she looked at him intently, always seeming slightly ironic but with a genuine intensity underneath, the way she always seemed aware of Su-min, in ways both matter-of-fact and gentle—he looked at her wonderingly, not at her body in the sleek dress, and not at her facial features either, but somehow at her.

"No," he said honestly.

She nodded. "Listen. Take me back to your room."

"Uh..."

"You'll need Jonno's permission, of course." Was it his imagination, or did the irony under her words subtly show on "permission"? 

"What's..." he said, feeling like he was the one in the spotlight. "I mean... How come?"

She looked over his shoulder and said, "Dorian wants me there."

As he was pulling in a breath and trying to put some questions together, some of which she probably couldn't answer, he heard a familiar voice behind him moving his way.

"John," said Napier warmly from just above him. 

He craned his head and smiled at Napier upside-down. "That sure was a surprise."

"Well," Napier said modestly. "I knew it meant a lot to Dorian, so of course I had to include him."

John got to his feet, tugging down his jacket. Napier had one hand resting lightly on the back of Dorian's neck. "Awfully nice of you, Jonno," he said. "Really. I hadn't seen Dorian that excited about something in a long while."

Napier looked sleek and pleased. 

"In fact..." John summoned up all that was left of his inner Campbell and leaned confidentially to Napier's ear. "I wonder if you wouldn't mind doing him one more favor."

"It's my pleasure to help my friends," Napier said grandly.

"Maybe you'd let Angela come see Dorian back in the room."

Napier raised his eyebrows. "Oh?" He looked at Angela, who was sitting up elegantly at the table now with her legs crossed at the knee. "As a favor...to Dorian?"

The delicate emphasis on the last word there put John on a quick, jagged tenterhook. Would Napier want John in the equation, or would that make him feel too possessive? 

But, he thought, but: Dorian hadn't felt free to make the request himself. John glanced casually at Dorian and back again, and then gave Napier an aw-shucks grin.

"Hey," he said humbly, shrugging. "Can you blame me? After everything you've done?" He regarded Angela like a work of art on a white marble pedestal, and knew Napier felt the admiration reflecting onto him.

"It's not the usual protocol," Napier said, but he said it indulgently, like someone's granddad. He leaned down and smiled into Angela's eyes. "You'd go to Mr. Campbell's room with Dorian if I told you to, wouldn't you, my girl?"

"Of course," she said. 

He gave a little huffing laugh. "Then off you go! Visit with your new friend." 

She patted Su-min's hand, then went to Dorian's side and took his arm.

"Half an hour," Napier said, turning to John. He didn't sound so avuncular there; the steel was back underneath. John nodded.

"Come on," he said to Dorian and Angela, and turned to lead them back to the bedroom like someone who knew what was happening. His best acting job yet.

* * *

He Campbelled his way back to the room: ho-hum, just a guy and two advanced sex robots on their way to a slumber party. Okay, a half-hour slumber party. So they wouldn't have time to watch a movie and eat popcorn.

There were no servicebots in sight, but the strew from John's hasty changing had been tidied up. And of course the bed had been turned down again. Terrific.

"Make yourself at home," he said as calmly as he could, sitting down heavily in his breakfast chair. "Boss says we've got thirty minutes, so let's make it count." He tried to catch Dorian's eye.

Dorian instead squeezed Angela's hand against his side and leaned to whisper to her. She grinned and shook her head, then whispered something back. It seemed to take a long time. John wondered if they were negotiating their schema of consent, and if he really was about to have a front-row seat to the absolute last show in the world he wanted to see. 

"Okay," Angela said out loud. "Give me a second." She crossed to Dorian's charging closet, and leaned into it with one hand while she stooped to remove her shoes. Her hand stretched, and clenched. Hard.

There was a powerful hum, so low and strong that John felt it more than heard it, and then a series of quick little beeps running all around the ceiling.

"There." Angela straightened up and kicked her shoes aside. "Forced the room's systems into diagnostic. Not sure how long this platform needs, given its last debug—fifteen minutes maybe."

"Thank you," Dorian said. 

John stood up uncertainly. "Yes. Seriously. Thanks. Now what's going on?"

"Ask him," Angela said. "He said we needed to talk, so here I am. Talking."

John felt ridiculously relieved. He glared at Dorian. "Okay, so?"

"So," Dorian said, "the item wasn't anywhere in the office."

"Yeah, I figured." John pulled off his hanging tie and threw it on the table. "I also figured you thought it might be back in his private room, through the bio-lock."

"I hoped. And I had plenty of time to scan back there. But no."

"Shit." John ran his hands through his hair, hard. "Is that it, then? Where haven't we looked?"

"I found it," Dorian said, and his eyes were worried.

"Wait, wait, what? If it wasn't back there, then..."

Dorian walked to Angela's side and lifted one hand toward her, then paused. "May I?"

"Sure." She watched him, interested.

He gently undid the ribbon, spilling her ponytail loose, then slipped his fingers into her hair. As he cupped his hand around her head, he met John's eyes. 

"Oh," John said. "Oh wow."

Dorian nodded.

"Angela," John said hesitantly, remembering Vanessa, and the way Dorian had looked at him as he'd clumsily insisted _Where were you made? Who owns you?_ "How much do you know about your own design?"

"Oh, lots," she said. "More than Jonno does, I'll tell you that."

John stared. "How is that possible?"

"Maybe the chip makes it possible," Dorian said.

"If you tell me what you're on about, I'll tell you if you're right," she said, sounding impatient, but with that same undercurrent of controlled humor. 

Dorian looked at John, and John figured they were thinking the same thing. "I'm okay with the gist of it if you want to make the call," he said. "Primary."

"Oh, thanks. Backup," Dorian grumbled. John grinned at him.

John thought maybe Dorian would launch into an abbreviated story of the chip and the mission, but instead he just lifted his hand again and touched her temple with two fingers, much the way he had once before with John's earpiece to transmit a call signal. The androids stood quietly together, their eyes still and inward-looking. John took off his jacket, feeling like a total fifth wheel.

"Those are the basic facts," Dorian said suddenly. He lowered his hand. "Slightly redacted, as appropriate."

"Yeah, I see," Angela said. "And you're right, there's a pretty strange piece of hardware in here." She tapped her head.

"Did Dr. Vaughn create you?" John hazarded.

"No, I never knew Dr. Vaughn. I know _of_ him, of course." She looked at Dorian. "He must be pretty special."

Dorian didn't answer, but John could sense the surge of feelings in him from across the room. "So who, uh— Where were you born, then?" John asked, drawing her attention away.

"You got me," she said. "I don't remember anything from before. So even if I knew then, I don't anymore." She sounded interested now. "I could probably sketch up some hypotheses—there's data from my various parts, a few partial serials, age and composition of components. Is it important?"

"I don't know," John admitted.

"'From before'," Dorian said. "That means before the chip?"

"Yeah," she said. "I woke up on the table in one of the workshops, and Jonno was muttering over something in my head. He was installing a plural component in there, and one of the inner pieces I guess is the thing you want."

"That's what the scanner says, anyway," John said.

"It feels a little jury-rigged to me, if you want to know the truth, but he hasn't screwed with it since. I think my improvement afterward must have scared him into leaving the whole component alone." 

"Glad to hear it." John looked helplessly at Dorian. 

"So." She stretched, and rested back on her elbows on the bed. "What now? You guys gonna take it?"

John tried to imagine it. After all, he was the guy with a trail of damaged MXs behind him, shouldn't he be the one who could do this if Dorian couldn't? He pictured Angela on a workshop gurney, looking at him with that same knowing expression. She had laugh lines around her eyes, and faint traces along her hairline like scars. He thought those probably used to be processing light-paths like Dorian's.

Dorian started to say something, looking nervous, but John spoke over him. "Would you give it to us willingly?"

She considered—seriously, it looked like. "No."

"Then I guess we aren't gonna take it."

"Of course we aren't," Dorian said, shooting him a look. "But you could come with us."

She laughed. "Jonno would love that."

"He wouldn't have to know," John offered. "We could get you away later, keep you out of his reach."

"He's got a pretty long reach." But she sounded amused, not scared.

"Suppose we could, though." Dorian took a step closer. "Would you come?"

She lay back flat on the bed and stretched her arms over her head, letting a few quiet seconds go by. "Guys," she said. "Come here."

Dorian went to her at once, sitting by her on the bed. John approached more warily. "Hey—we don't have much time," he said.

She sat up and put a hand on Dorian's wrist. "Listen, I know this means a lot to you. And you too," she said to John, "even if you don't let on. But tell me, what does SynthSec want with it?"

"We were hoping the chip would help us find him," John said. He left out any of Dorian's personal hopes about understanding Vaughn; they were nobody else's business.

"That's what _you_ want," she said. "What do _they_ want?"

"It's in their interest to locate Dr. Vaughn too," Dorian said, but he sounded surprisingly tentative. "He could be creating any number of unregulated and dangerous androids beyond the Wall."

"Killbot armies are kind of the definition of a synthetic security threat, don't you think?" John was getting a little impatient.

"Yeah. But what's a little more likely: that they'll be interested in doing the subtle work, the profiling, figuring Vaughn out from such delicate evidence? Or that they'll be interested in some reverse engineering?" She looked at John, twisting the corner of her mouth. "Killbot armies go both ways."

Dorian looked at John unhappily. 

"Maybe they do," John said, "but why not? I mean, if Vaughn—sorry, Dorian, but if he does plan to come marching back with a bot brigade, wouldn't SynthSec want us to have protection? They can do both: deconstruct the chip to figure him out, and reconstruct it to get ready for him."

"They're not interested in figuring him out," she said flatly. "But they know _you_ are, and that's why they sent you."

"How the hell—" John started, but Dorian warned him off.

"Why do you say that?" Dorian said, more evenly than John would have, sounding honestly curious. "What do you know?"

"For Tết, we went on a trip on one of Jonno's yachts. He had a ton of guests—a lot more than this, it was a real party, not about personal attention and workshop facilities and show time. Went on for a week. And the second-to-last night, after the fireworks and the dinner and the dance, everyone was finally crashing. I took a turn around the boat, checked on Su-min, and she—this was before the regender and the last redesign—she mentioned something about some guests still playing pretty rough in the game room.

"Well, you know, I figured it was just more sex, as if any of the guests hadn't gotten their rocks off enough yet." She wrinkled her nose and grinned at John specifically; maybe she knew he was likely to squirm. He admired that about her. "But as I got closer, I could hear them, and it wasn't sex at all. They were being rough with the furnishings; sounded like the last stretch of a pretty frustrating search. Whatever they wanted, it wasn't on the boat, or a hell of a lot of other places Jonno lived."

"Yeah," John said, "we know, they've been looking a long time. And?"

"And I heard their orders, and where the pressure's coming from. I didn't understand it at the time—I didn't even care. I just thought Jonno must have picked up some piece of illegal tech, a weapon or something. He likes to collect things whether he really understands them or not." She gave Dorian a meaningful smile and pointed a thumb at herself. "But the orders were about reverse engineering, and production of the 'units'—must be the android bodies—is already underway. And their silent partner is someone military, someone high up."

Dorian shook his head slowly. His lips were pressed together hard. John knew it wasn't contradiction, but Angela sighed and put her fingers to Dorian's temple. "Here. Listen for yourself."

Dorian's eyes closed as he listened to whatever it was that broke down a little more of his faith in the people in charge. John felt for him. But as for himself, that had already been broken down plenty except for his personal loyalty to Maldonado, so on his own behalf mostly he just felt irritation. "Fuck. Okay, fine. But why not come with us? We wouldn't have to hand you over to them. You said it yourself, we have our own reasons—you could help us."

"I like you, I really do," she said. "And Dorian's a good kisser besides. But I can't see me lasting very long if they realize I have what they're looking for. And if I went missing, they'd know. Two cops, against the DHS and the military? No offense."

"No," Dorian said. He sounded as hollow as he looked. "You're right." And when John started to argue: "John. She's right. Think about it."

"I have been thinking about it," he snapped. "And what do _you_ think, we can just leave her here alone? What if Napier gets a bright idea someday to do some tinkering? If he cracks that module open the wrong way, couldn't you get sent right back to...sleep, or whatever?" 

Angela rubbed Dorian's arm, glancing sideways at John. "He's really very sweet, isn't he," she said to Dorian without lowering her voice at all.

Dorian managed a little smile at her as John made a spluttering sound. "That's not how I'd put it."

"She doesn't need to hear how you'd put it, thanks," John said hastily. 

"We are worried, though." Dorian put his hand over hers.

"I can handle Jonno." But their faces must not have convinced her, because she shrugged. "If I feel like I'm in danger, I'll bug out. Okay? I wouldn't have before, because where would I go. But now I know a couple of cops who can show me around."

"You do," said John seriously. "Don't hesitate."

"A little risk is good for the soul," she answered. "And Dorian...I'm sorry."

He nodded, trying to muster that little smile again. But he didn't seem able to do it, against the weight pulling down at his eyes and his mouth and his brows. He looked honestly hopeless, and John hadn't really thought before about how much he counted on the subtle levels of hope in Dorian's face.

"Hey..." Angela ran a thumb beneath one of Dorian's eyes, although there were no tears. "Don't let it get to you."

Dorian nodded some more, like he was working to convince himself as he convinced her. It obviously wasn't working. 

Angela seemed to agree, because she smiled faintly and pulled him to her in a hug, petting the back of his head. She looked over at John.

"He was made to feel," John said. He was aiming for deadpan or something, but he didn't think he hit it.

"Weren't we all," she answered, and then blinked. "Hey. You better get your kit off or something, because the security system is into final compile. Online in 30 seconds."

John broke some kind of record, and he thought a couple of shirt studs too, yanking off his clothes down to his shorts and diving for the bed. His leg was still on, but for all his pal Jonno knew, maybe John had a few fun games he liked to play using Dorian and the leg's interface or something. 

By the time he'd clawed his way up to the top of the bed, Angela and Dorian were under the covers. She was cradling his head against her chest and holding the back of his neck comfortingly. John hesitated.

The ceiling beeps came again, regularly spaced around the edges like a little countdown. John scrambled under the duvet behind Dorian and put an arm around him. He tried to control his breathing for the cameras, but then realized that was ridiculous for a guy in bed with two sexbots. The last chirp, then silence, and Angela met his eyes with a nod. They were all back onstage.

John breathed against Dorian's bare shoulder and held on to him. He could feel the waistband again under his fingers, and the little trail of hair he'd noticed before. 

Angela held Dorian's head back in both hands and kissed him. John couldn't help watching, and as he did, she glanced at him with a flickering wink. He swallowed.

"That's good," she said throatily, and leaned forward. She put one hand on the back of John's neck and pulled him in, and it might have looked slow and sensual from the outside, but her grip was irresistible. Literally. He went where he was pulled rather than lose a vertebra, and she stopped him right next to Dorian's ear, nuzzling from John's face to Dorian's and back.

"I have an idea," she said, her whisper incongruously cheerful. "Dorian, I know it's not as good, but how about a scan."

"Uh." John forced himself to concentrate, as she traced them both with languorous touches of her lips. "Couldn't they still reverse-engineer from that?"

"Not as well," she whispered, "but it's not _for_ them." And she pinched his ear hard between two fingernails so that he yelped.

"Right, right."

"Yes," Dorian said audibly. "Yes, please, Angela."

"Okay." She kissed the tip of John's nose, the lobe of Dorian's ear. "We have the rest of the half-hour. Let's make good use of it." 

Dorian slipped his hands up into Angela's hair, fanning it between his fingers, combing it and letting it run through, getting his hands into some kind of position. She kissed him once as they shifted closer together, then pulled back slightly and seemed to settle herself. He looked at her steadily, with his hands around her head and his eyes gazing into hers. His temples began to glow, then the angle of his jaw, the light gracefully circulating.

"Wait," she said. She moved one arm under the covers, and Dorian nodded. They both adjusted, Dorian's back pressing against John's chest, and with a shock John realized he could feel Angela's leg over Dorian's hip. They were...fitting together. Or pretending to, John couldn't tell. All he knew was, it was very appropriate for the camera. 

They began to rock together, slight reciprocal thrusts. Angela kept her eyes open, though, not the half-closed steamy look she'd given Napier. The contact of their gazes, and of Dorian's hands on her head, never wavered. 

It was a perfect idea, John told himself. Perfect, a great explanation for why they'd want to lie there like that for the rest of the allotted time. No one could suspect. 

Dorian's back and hips pushed into John, and away. Push, and away. In a little while Dorian's back felt sweaty, and it took John a hazy minute to realize that this was all from his own chest. He ran a hand over his face, remembering the golden times of a few minutes ago when he'd thought he knew what being a fifth wheel was all about.

 _Well, Campbell?_ he demanded.

But no one had asked him. No one apparently needed the involvement of a worse-for-wear human cop in the making of a high-res 3D layered scan of a certain item inside a, what had she called it. A plural something. He sucked in a breath as Dorian's ass brushed against him, and reminded himself that what they did need him for, what Dorian needed him for, was backup. That was his job. And in this case, the backup could keep out of things he didn't understand, and do his part for the show.

"That's it," he said in his authoritative Campbell voice, cringing inside. He put one dominant hand on Dorian's shoulder, while trying to slide his hips backward unobtrusively. "That's it. Good boy."

 _Good boy_ , oh, nice one, Dorian was going to let him hear a thing or two later. "Come on, Angela. Fuck him nice and slow." It seemed to him that the scan wouldn't be improved with much movement.

She moaned in what John hoped was tacit approval. Unless it was her onstage replacement for a laugh, which was actually pretty likely. He'd never been much of a dirty talker when he wasn't out of his head with desire: when he was still in his right mind and could hear himself, he suddenly felt awkward and exposed and stupid. But when he was high enough, when he could let go of his mind's shackles right at the brink, and just feel... 

He remembered himself last night, which brought on a full-body wince. But he also remembered Dorian last night, and nope, he wasn't having any more trouble getting aroused. He wondered how much longer they had on Napier's allowable time, and whether Angela had some kind of alarm set. Because he wanted Dorian to have his scan, but he also desperately wanted this to end as soon as possible—though he didn't want Napier to stomp in and disrupt the scanning process, let alone discover John still wearing underwear.

They kept at it, and John gripped Dorian's shoulder in his sweaty hand and gave occasional Campbell-style orders in the guise of encouragement. By now his cock was prodding against the inside of his boxers and kept trying to escape through the fly. He was especially glad that Angela's eyes were busy in the, whatever, scanning link, and she couldn't spare a second for any more winking. 

Eventually Angela moaned again, without it being an obvious response to any of John's cheerleading attempts. And then she whispered, with very convincing and breathy effort: "Time."

John sagged in relief. He hoped it had been long enough for a really good scan. But he also wanted so badly to get into the bathroom and jerk out an orgasm as soon as he could.

They kept going, though. The movement remained much the same, although Dorian's hands were moving restlessly in her hair, and their eyes no longer met. What were they—

Angela looked at him over Dorian's shoulder and widened her eyes in a meaningful cue. And his sluggish brain realized: why would sexbots finish their sex? Because their human wanted them to, that's why. And why would he want them to?

He let out a breath through gritted teeth that he hoped sounded more aroused than upset. The show needed a climax. He thought grimly that Dorian was going to have ammunition on him for like a year. No, for like forever.

"Faster," he said. They obeyed. Angela's eyes were dreamy and mostly-closed again.

John squeezed Dorian's upper arm. "Yeah," he said throatily. "That's it." What had he said last night, if he'd even made coherent noises—

Dorian's harder thrusts began to push against him again, back and away, bumping haphazardly into the tip of his cock. 

" _Oh_ ," John said, "fuck. Faster, that's— good, like that—"

He felt simultaneously ridiculous and helpless, opening his mouth to let the sounds out without knowing what they'd be. His cock throbbed, pre-come dampening his fly.

The remnants of his mind gave it a few seconds, then he said, "Come on— Harder— Now—" and the androids gasped and thrust rapidly together. Dorian's arm flexed under his clinging hand.

John couldn't remember how to groan on demand, so he just ducked his head and curled in on himself, trusting the cue was enough. And as Angela and Dorian performed their finish, he let go and scooted away in the bed, squeezing his eyes closed. He was shaking. After a few delayed seconds, he knew it was too late, and he hurriedly stuck his hand into his boxers to cup it over his spasming cock as he came. 

Dorian and Angela were whispering to each other. Then she sat up, the duvet falling away from her breasts, and said, "It's time for me to go, Mr. Campbell."

Maybe Campbell could have pulled himself together and been less of a wreck, or at least been more of a happy wreck, feeling well-exercised after a nice, meaningless romp. But John couldn't seem to find that fucker anywhere anymore.

"Okay," he said weakly into his pillow. "Thanks." He hesitated. "Good job." There was a lot more to say to her, but he hoped Dorian had said it.

She climbed out of the bed and, he assumed from the sounds, got dressed. Then the door opened and shut.

John and Dorian lay there an arm's length apart. The room seemed very quiet.

"John," Dorian said after a while.

"What." John's fingers were drying stickily.

"I'm sorry."

"What the hell for?" he asked loudly without thinking. Then he sighed and rolled to grab one of the umpteen unused pillows, scrubbed his hand clean on the pillowcase, and whipped the pillow across the room. He moved closer to Dorian, hoping it looked even vaguely post-coital instead of awkward and exhausted. "What the hell for?" he whispered. Some pillow-talk that was.

Dorian rolled to face him. He looked exhausted too, and John wondered how much juice such an intensive scan might have eaten up. Or was it unhappiness?

"Mission failed," Dorian whispered. "And we're gonna have to lie to the captain. On an official report."

"You leave her to me," John said. 

"Maybe we can tell her off the record," Dorian said hopefully.

"No way." No room for negotiation there. He didn't want to talk about Maldonado. He trusted her, and she'd always been there for him. He'd tried lying to her before, even though she knew him well enough to eventually find her way through. He was just going to have to be better at it this time, that's all. Because if she did find out, John knew that she could easily end up in worse danger from SynthSec than any of them. And if the department itself ended up under threat, there was even the chance she'd be forced to trade the information to save it. Not willingly, but with her eye on protecting her people. John wouldn't put her in that position.

"I know you're primary and all," he said at last. "But I've known her a long time and I know how to play it. You gotta trust me on this one."

"All right."

More quiet. John flexed his right foot; he knew he should get up soon and take his leg off. But Dorian was still studying his face, worry and sadness creasing every line in his forehead and by his mouth.

"Now what?"

"I'm sorry you had to do this."

"Hey." John's voice almost rose too far, and he had to forcibly throttle it back down. "Screw that. I'm sorry _you_ had to do this, okay?"

Dorian shook his head.

"Uch," John said. "C'mere, would you."

He grabbed Dorian in a hug, and Dorian hugged him back. Then they just rested there in a loose embrace. John guessed that if thoughts made sound, the room would have been buzzing. He knew they both would be better off if he could stop thinking so much and make himself go to sleep: sleep would bring the morning, the morning would bring departure. Departure would bring John Kennex back, who maybe wasn't quite so fucked up...or who at least was fucked up in different and more familiar ways.

But he couldn't sleep, despite the exhaustion and the low mood and the orgasm. All he could do was think. And after thinking about Angela and her situation—which after all didn't take so long; she really seemed to have her shit together—all there was to think about was Dorian. And himself. Dorian and himself.

He lifted a hand to the headboard and dimmed the lights off.

While the cameras looked at Campbell and his prize possession sleeping off a threesome, they couldn't see John. So John wrapped his arms tighter around Dorian and held on to him. Dorian made a little noise and pushed his head against John's neck. Tentatively, John patted his back. His own weird hesitation almost made him laugh, given the sorts of things he'd already done with Dorian in the past couple days. But... even if the cameras couldn't see John, Dorian could. And after tonight, John would be leaving the cameras behind.

But Dorian's first mission as primary had turned out a failure. And his only remaining link to his... his parent, maybe, though a real problem dad as it turned out—was caught in the middle of complications he couldn't resolve. John remembered dealing with his own first few hard losses on the job by drinking too much and getting into stupid arguments, but Dorian couldn't drink, and he didn't swallow his disappointment and turn it into anger. Despite all of John's handy demonstrations.

So instead, John rubbed Dorian's back, feeling the remnants of the usual embarrassed prickles and powering through them. And he sensed Dorian relaxing: he gradually warmed and eased, the tensions in his body subsiding. It didn't feel quite the same as it did to hold a human, the way Dorian felt against him, but by now it was almost starting to feel familiar. And because this was Dorian, it was starting to feel safe.

Only now did John start to wonder if this was going to be a problem.

"Hey," he said, pulling slowly away, squeezing the back of Dorian's neck. "We oughta get charged."

"Yeah," Dorian said. He gave a rueful little smile. "Thanks, John."

"Anytime." John thumped Dorian's shoulder. It was the sort of thing he would have said before. But now he was feeling like he meant it, and oh, shit.

Dorian climbed out of bed and into the charging cubicle while John dealt with his leg. He could have worn it all night if necessary, he was sure; this one seemed to need a lot less fussing. He figured he should test it sometime. But then, you never knew when you'd need extra power from it the next day, so.

He hopped back into bed and squirmed under the covers somewhere near the middle, where their vanishing warmth was. Dorian's charger was closed.

"Hey!" he called.

The door opened and Dorian peered out.

"You can leave it open. If you want."

"I'm not used to an enclosed cubicle," Dorian said, "but it's okay either way."

"Nah, leave it open. Don't... you know, don't listen to me, I'm a jerk."

"Oh, I'm gonna quote you on that one." Dorian settled back and closed his eyes.

"I bet," John grumbled. 

And that felt better, like something they could have. Like the rest could get packed up and put away with the fed-issue tuxes, and he'd miss it—or not miss it—just as much. He dozed on and off, the lights of Dorian's charger playing gently over him.

* * *

"I'm sorry you have to leave so early," Napier said. He sounded sincere, holding John's hand in a long clasp. He also looked spruce and perfectly awake, and John longed to have some of whatever he drank in the mornings.

"Me too," John said, in what might have been his finest lie of the whole trip. "Thanks for everything."

"And Dorian." Napier turned to him and took both his hands. "It has been such a delight to meet you."

"Thank you, Mr. Napier," Dorian said. "I've learned a lot from you."

"Oh!" Napier looked down at him intently. "That might be the nicest thing you could possibly have said to me."

"And I must also thank you for introducing me to Angela. I've never met anyone quite like her."

"She is special, isn't she," Napier said with a sigh. "I'm glad to widen your horizons, my boy." He looked at John with a mock-scold to his face. "Now don't you let this fellow get rusty! He needs to be challenged. Stretched."

John plastered on a smile. "Yes, sir. Jonno." 

Napier patted their backs and held their shoulders and walked them personally to the car. The limo seemed cavernous inside without their other arrival companions: cavernous, and echoingly quiet. The same went for the plane. Again John got the central swivel seat and the movies and the constant barrage of delicacies and hot towels. Dorian got the standing rack and the patient valet's expression. John spent most of the time distracting himself with mental rough drafts of their report, saying just enough while directly lying as little as possible. His stomach sloshed with acid and coffee and the effort of ignoring the future as hard as he could.

* * *

They took a cab from the airstrip this time, getting out downtown and catching another cab to the station. Not that John really expected anyone to follow them, but protocol was protocol. And besides, the longer he could delay their arrival, the more likely that the captain wouldn't be around for a personal debrief. 

"Maybe she'll be in a meeting," he said as they climbed out of the second cab. It was the first time he'd spoken in hours.

"Captain Maldonado has a court appearance this afternoon," Dorian said unexpectedly.

"Wait, she does? What time?"

"I don't know," Dorian said, sounding frustrated. "I can't check the police databases. I heard her casually mention it before we left."

"Bet you'll be glad to have the cop files hooked back up, huh." John grabbed his suitcase, which he hadn't been allowed to carry all damn weekend what with Dorian and the servicebots. It felt good in his hand.

He took a deep breath before they entered, trying to ready himself. No sign of Maldonado in her office, and that helped. But what didn't help was the next person they encountered on their way to John's desk.

"Hey, it's the lovebirds," Paul said. He had one foot up on his desk and a glowing file in his lap.

"Hey, Richard," John said. "Hope you didn't ruin everything while we weren't here to pick up after you."

"It was so nice and quiet. Like a vacation." Paul idly thumbed through his file. "You guys should honeymoon more often."

"Can't imagine it'd fit the budget." John tried to keep his voice light. He tossed down his suitcase.

"So," Paul said. "You get it or what?"

"Get what?" John dug around for a report tablet. 

"Come on, Kennex, give." And at John's dubious glance: "I got drafted into helping the captain with the admin on this, okay." He held up the file, and there it was, the mission outline and Paul's codes and photo. "So hand the thing over and I can get this done and move on to some real work."

John sat heavily in his chair, stretching out his left leg. It felt tired and a little cramped from all the sitting on the plane, but his right leg was still going strong. "Nothing to hand over."

Paul shoved the file closer to his face. "Stop screwing around. I got enough clearance for it, whatever it is."

"I'd love to drop it right in your little lap if I had it," John said. "But I don't."

"Wait, seriously?" Paul pulled his foot off the desk and sat up.

"Seriously." John noticed Dorian kneeling by their suitcases, removing things and making a small pile. Must have been divvying up personal property from mission property.

"Motherfuck."

"Yeah."

"You're saying you had to spend all this time bending Dorian over a couch and you didn't even get the thing?"

John's hand clenched on the report tablet. "Fuck you."

Paul actually blinked at him, surprised. "What?"

"Enough." John tapped in his codes and headers and tried to concentrate through the haze of temper rising in his throat and burning in his head.

"Oh, stepping on your toes there?" Paul snorted. "Sorry, I meant to say 'after Dorian spent all that time bending _you_ over a couch.'"

John checked the "negative" box in the Target Completion field.

"Man." Paul tossed his file onto his desk. "I cannot believe this. How hard is it to search and retrieve? You get distracted by your froofy parties?"

"Yeah, that's it." John checked the "negative" box in the Recommend Further Mission Engagement field. "Too much froofing. Shoulda sent you and your MX."

"MXs aren't for fucking, man," Paul said. "They hardly got any holes."

"Well, you should know," John said.

"Ah, shut up." Paul started industriously ignoring him, which was a blessing straight from heaven.

"John," Dorian said quietly. If John hadn't known he'd had some good solid time in the charger last night, he might've thought it was his power cells that were low. "I have some scanned material to download to hard copy. It could take a while."

"Yeah, okay." John offered the report. "Before you get into that, would you put your map of the place in here? I can show the completed search."

Dorian took the tablet and uploaded a thorough set of graphics. "I attached the chip-scanner readings for all areas."

"Great." He looked at Dorian for another few seconds, then patted his elbow awkwardly. "Take it easy with that download."

Dorian nodded, unsmiling, and left, presumably for the android areas in the basement. John started writing in the text field, walking the tightrope: detailed enough, but not too elaborate. As many verifiable facts as possible, lying almost entirely by omission. The map and associated scanner stats provided tons of solid data with no clue to their actual irrelevance. In the end, John was forced to conclude it was a pretty good piece of bullshit. Though maybe not "good" so much as "useful".

He coded and scrambled the sheet for Maldonado's classification only, and submitted it. Maybe ten seconds later, his desk chirped.

He dug in there for the handheld he'd left behind and saw a message:

_In court. Recessed. Back ok?_

He wanted to pretend he hadn't read it, to put off this moment a little longer. But slowly, he tapped out an answer:

_Back. Nope._

A longer pause this time.

_Ok. Go home._

He wondered how much time after court she'd have to spend submitting his report to SynthSec and absorbing their outrage. He owed her a bottle of something really nice. _Really_ nice. He almost felt bad enough to want to stay at work until official end of shift—but he was so tired, and with Paul running the show in the captain's absence John was sure to snap at some point and get written up. If Valerie had been there, he might have been able to manage not to shove Paul head-first down the elevator shaft; but he was frankly glad she wasn't, because what he didn't need right now was one more person to lie to.

He took his sidearm and his own bag with his personal effects in it, and gladly abandoned the mission-suitcases to Paul's awesome adminning powers. As he left, Paul eyed him sideways and smirked over at his MX. John couldn't bring himself to care. He went down to the basement.

Dorian had changed out of his in-character traveling clothes into his uniform, and he was sitting at a little corner station with a data solid directly cabled into his neck. As John approached, he blinked and looked up.

"How's it going?"

"Almost finished."

"No rush," John said, and leaned against the table. "That, uh... it's not running through station systems, is it?"

"No. And I've added several layers of my own encryption." He sounded resigned.

John grunted and gazed across the room at the rows of empty MX chargers. "You're doing the right thing."

"Yeah."

After a little while, the only sound a low pulse from the glowing cable, John said, "Maybe you'll see her again sometime."

"Maybe," Dorian said.

The cable finally dimmed and went dark, and Dorian unhooked and pocketed the solid. He sat at the table, looking at his hands.

"I can give you a lift to Rudy's. Come on." 

On their way out, they stayed as far from Paul's desk as possible. He muttered something, but John was consciously not hearing him. He hoped Dorian knew enough not to either.

* * *

A lazy sprinkling rain started as he pulled into traffic. Dorian gazed out the side window.

"You have a safe place to keep it?" John asked eventually.

"Yeah. And I can use some of Rudy's equipment after hours. I'll have to scrub the logs, though. He might notice."

"Is he gonna be a problem?"

"No." Dorian considered. "If he saw the data, he'd know what he was looking at, and _that_ might be a problem. But if he sees I scrubbed the data, he'll just be curious."

"I don't think being at the pointy end of Rudy's curiosity is a good spot for anyone," John admitted. "I mean, it's not like he's Mister Discretion 2049."

"I can communicate with him," Dorian said, and despite himself—despite the fact that this conversation wasn't even _about_ him—John felt the words sting. "If he asks and I don't want to answer, I'll tell him so. He'll still be curious, but he of all people understands a direct approach."

"Is that how you got your...bedroom?"

"Yeah."

"That's nice," John said.

He made the last turn, and the spire of the lab building came into view. "Hey, Dorian?" His heart skipped a little in his chest.

"Yes, John."

"Come with me. I mean, home. With me."

He knew, he just _knew_ Dorian was going to ask why, and press him for details, and start talking about it. The rise in his heartbeat thumped in his ears, and he should have felt the heat of the extra blood flow, but instead his hands were cold on the steering wheel. His left foot was cold, even, inside his boot.

"Okay."

A few seconds thumped by with nothing else. Dorian was looking out the side window again, where the rain was picking up, and John couldn't see his expression.

So John drove home, the St. Christopher medal barely swinging on the rear-view at every unnecessarily slow turn.

* * *

He couldn't offer him coffee. Or tea, or a scotch, or any of the other things you learned how to use for comfort, or for an excuse to have someone stay a little longer. So John just tossed his overnight bag into a corner and sat down at the kitchen bar. Dorian sat next to him.

"Dorian, look," John said. "This happens to everybody, a mission going bad."

"I suppose it must," Dorian said, "statistically."

" _Statistically_ , you did everything that could've been done. Just because you're primary doesn't mean you're God. You know?"

"I know." Dorian regarded him quietly, and John had the uncomfortable feeling that there was a lot he wasn't saying. 

"And Vaughn isn't God either. We'll find him. There'll be another way."

"I felt like we had a real chance," Dorian said. 

"It was already a longshot. I mean, Angela was right: even if we did have it, what could we really get out of something like that? It tells us more about who he _was_ , not who he is now."

Dorian shook his head.

"Anyway, there's the scan," John tried. "That was pretty nice of her to offer. In her place, I'm not sure I would've wanted anyone taking pictures of the inside of my head."

"I'd need combat pay for that," Dorian said, and managed a little smile. John smiled back. He felt a little better: he set it up, Dorian spiked it. Almost like usual.

Dorian kept looking at him, his eyes so pale in the light slanting in the windows. His little smile remained, tucked in at the corner, like he was keeping something to himself. Finally, he said, "I should go get started on it. There are a lot of layers, with a lot of data; a first pass alone is gonna take a while."

John slid his hand over toward Dorian until they barely touched. "You could stay a while. Here."

The little smile faded, but Dorian's eyes were still alight somehow, no matter how solemn his face. "You know, there aren't any cameras anymore." 

He said it kindly, but John still felt it pretty hard. "Hey." 

"John. Is this about what I told you Friday night? Because I do apologize, man. I didn't mean to put it on you. I just thought it would help if you knew I wasn't lying. But sometimes I get you wrong." He looked at John earnestly. "I'm fine. This isn't a problem. So don't think you owe me anything."

The traffic jam in John's vocal cords finally pushed its way through. "Owe you!"

"Trying to let me down easy," Dorian said. "You're not a bad guy—you might not want me to feel rejected. But you don't have to do anything about it; I didn't intend for you to know. We can just be like we were."

"I do want us to be like we were," John said, when he could get a word in edgewise.

"We will."

Dorian had a perfectly pleasant look on his face, but his jaw and his eyes were developing a determined steeliness that John didn't like at all. He knew Dorian would have to learn better how to lie and like it, when necessary. It was a survival skill for better or worse. But about this— 

"Maybe I want something else too," John said desperately. "I mean— Maybe I— Maybe, the thing you said—"

Dorian watched him, tilting his head slightly to the side.

"Maybe I kind of— Like, if I didn't really know it, or, or admit it, but then— When you—"

"Hey, John," Dorian said, leaning forward now, peering at him.

" _What_."

"You really are terrible at this."

" _I know_!" John roared.

Dorian lifted a hand to him very slowly, giving him plenty of time to flee—though he couldn't have moved away even if he'd wanted to—and lightly touched his face. The warm fingertips barely brushed his jaw.

"I could stay a while," Dorian said.

He kissed John for the first time, his lips plush and delicate. John closed his eyes at the touch, opened them, blinking as Dorian sat gravely back. It had been—strange. Not like a human. Not like the CPR dummy. Not like anything he could remember. 

"But I can go anytime," Dorian added earnestly. "No harm no foul. You don't have to do anything you don't want."

 _We don't have to do anything if you don't want to,_ Vanessa recited in her practiced script.

"Shit. Don't—" John shook his head hard. Dorian looked really concerned. "You'd, uh... you'd feel better with a schema, wouldn't you."

Dorian's face lit up. "Oh, yeah. Please."

John buried his head in his hands. "Fine," he said forcefully. "Here's my offer: anybody can stop anytime. Nobody is making anybody do anything. Okay? Does that... Is that the right...thing?"

"You don't want to get any more specific?" 

John shook his head.

"Of course you don't." Dorian's voice sounded relaxed again, like he was smiling. Even affectionate. "Okay, I can work with that."

"Great," John muttered. "He can work with that."

"C'mere, then." Dorian touched his hair, and John peered up from his protective hands. He wasn't sure why Dorian's face affected him so much now. It was beautiful, but the beauty had been designed and sculpted, Nigel Vaughn's touch all over it. And it hadn't moved him at first: though he'd noticed the beauty he hadn't really cared, and he never thought about the other leftover DRN, the hospital mechanic. What was it that he saw, when he looked at Dorian looking at him? When Dorian got that familiar worry line between his eyes, even as he smiled? 

He leaned forward and kissed Dorian, and again it was strange. Everything about knowing Dorian could be strange sometimes. Strange and funny and difficult and reassuring and too complicated for him to wrap his head around.

The chairs scraped on the floor as they stood and kissed again, Dorian's face upturned to his. John was breathing fast, and he caught a hint of that scent he'd noticed before, like something hot and sparking and charged in the air. But there was also something rich, something he could almost taste. He knew androids had no pheromones, no organic compounds in their skin. But there was something there in Dorian, something he fed on and pushed for, and he felt the hazy heat of desire working its way through him.

When Dorian shoved against him a little aggressively, one hand bracing firmly in the small of John's back, John's cock pulsed in the beginnings of an erection. He took hold of Dorian's shoulders and gripped tight.

"Bed," he said.

"Okay," Dorian said. He followed behind, and by the time they got to the sleeping area, John saw he had stripped off his jacket and shirt and was starting on his trousers.

John took a breath and followed suit, peeling things off and throwing them down anywhere. He doublechecked the window settings to make sure they were opaqued on the outside before he stooped to pull off his underwear. The leg was staying on; he thought he might need it.

He'd seen Dorian's cock before, in their regrettable little car encounter. But now he saw Dorian in his entirety, his skin brown all over, his cock slightly darker and still startlingly well-sized. His chest and abdomen had that delicate little trail of hair, and his scrotum was lightly furred. John's right leg had no hair; he wondered if the designers would want to know Vaughn's secret.

Dorian sat on the bed, on top of the covers, and smiled up at him. "This is better than that guest room. Not so far to go."

It definitely was better, at first, especially once John had made himself take that last step and lie down. No more slinking around under the duvet, or getting caught up in his boxers. Instead, Dorian kissed him some more, eagerly, and their bare bodies pressed together. John's erection firmed. He caught Dorian's leg between both of his and savored the pressure. 

But then John's attention wandered, as was normal. Even while they kissed, he started groping for Dorian's cock in an automatic reflex. Get pleasure, give pleasure. He felt it in his hand, sleek and warm. And at his touch, it began to stiffen.

He suddenly thought of hydraulics. Pneumatics. The modules and platforms being demonstrated so cheerfully on Napier's stage. The hips swivel, the mouth widens. Obedient to the client's cues, the proper organs tumesce.

John's pulse was speeding up so much he felt like the individual beats were blurring together. The last time he'd been like this, bare and vulnerable and hard, drunk with kissing, it was with a liar. Acting out the relationship, faked and constructed from the very beginning. She'd recorded his every private moment, uploading it to who knew where. Anna, with her brown skin and her softly-fuzzed groin, her ready smile, the way she'd hold John and let him hide for a while.

His erection was going, had gone. His heart thudded achingly not from passion, but from panic.

"John." Dorian moved in the bed, put a hand to his neck. "You all right, man?"

"Just don't—" John gasped— "—don't scan me, okay—"

"I won't," Dorian said at once. "I'm not." He kept the hand on John's neck, but it was just resting there, the thumb stroking lightly. "Breathe."

"Yeah, _trying_ ," he growled, and that helped a little. 

Dorian eased away, just his hand connecting them now. John breathed, and swore internally, and blinked sweat from his eyes. Dorian's expression was withdrawn and worried.

John sat up and pulled his pillow into his lap. "Sorry."

"No," Dorian said. "I think I must've set you off. Something about me." His smile was pained. "Wonder what it could be."

John just shook his head, struggling to catch his breath.

"This didn't happen on the weekend. Maybe your reactions there, your discoveries, maybe they were really just side effects of Napier and his show. Like a jealous reflex."

"I was not jealous," John insisted. 

"Just a reflex," Dorian repeated. "Not like you really wanted to do this sort of thing."

"With Napier, I just—" John rubbed his face. "I fucking hated him telling you what to do."

Dorian blinked. "You _love_ telling me what to do." 

"Well!" John said, gripping his pillow. "I mean, yeah, and you don't do it! Count it up. Statistically. Day one, there you are, telling me where to get off."

Dorian ducked his head on a smile. His hands were folded modestly in his lap. But when he looked back up, his smile had caught and faded. "Maybe that's getting closer. I think maybe you have difficulty because I'm not a person."

"Don't start."

"I'm not a legal person, John. You know my status: city property." 

"Would you please?"

"Like one of the MXs. Or a weapon issued from the master-at-arms."

"I know," John said miserably. "I mean, it sucks. But I have some ideas, and I bet between us we can get the captain to—"

"I'm not complaining," Dorian said. "Not right now. I'm just saying, you know this, and you're a good cop from a family of good cops. So your subconscious is reacting to inappropriate contact with someone in your direct chain of command."

"Weren't we just talking about how you wouldn't follow a command from me if your synthetic soul depended on it? And how you were obviously put on this earth to plague me forever?"

But Dorian went on, calm and remorseless: "If I'm city property, then the legalities implicitly put every city employee above me in a chain of command. Every human, over every android."

"That is not how I feel about you!" 

Dorian studied him silently for a few seconds.

"John, you used the words 'I feel' in a sentence."

"Oh, for—"

"You sure you're okay?"

"Shut up."

He fell over on his side, leaving the pillow where it was.

"It's okay," Dorian said. "I'll go get started on the scan analysis, we'll get back to work tomorrow. No problem."

"Just give me a minute," John said. 

"Much as I hate to do what you say," Dorian answered, "okay." And he stretched out on his stomach, his chin propped on his hands. Even the curve of the small of his back was beautiful.

Something in the back of John's mind was stirring. He thought about the events of the weekend, and the fresh panicky memories that had just now left him tasting metal and adrenaline. He hated to do it, but he forced himself to pick his way through, watching himself with the wide-open clarity he successfully avoided at anger management class.

"You know what?" he said at last. "You got something there."

"That I'm not a person," Dorian suggested, turning his head.

"That you're not a _human_ person."

"No," Dorian said without any sign of upset. 

"All this weekend, all the bots—you and Angela included—everyone was being checked and tested on how well they passed for human."

"Right, that's the primary sexbot rubric." 

"But they can't ever hit it, can they," said John. "Not even Angela, and not even you. You have your, what, the sensors in your fingers, the port in your neck, whatever goes on behind your eyes or in your mouth—and don't tell me, I don't want to know about it. You can flip a speeding van. None of it says human person to me."

Dorian turned onto his side, gracefully curling up. "So what got under your skin Friday night..."

"Yeah, that's the thing. All these bots with their own structures, I don't know, maybe they can flip their own vans or whatever. But they just kept having to play human, follow the script, and that can only get close enough to show you how fake it is. And everybody's supposed to play along. That's where it feels like..." He waved a hand around.

"A lie," Dorian said. "Wow. So I guess you have kind of a problem with that."

"Don't ask me how this makes me feel," John warned.

"You're making a breakthrough here, John."

"Do not do it."

Dorian smiled, and John shook his head and bit back a smile of his own. It was weird how much like the car it could feel, despite them being bare ass naked.

"It seems to work as a sexbot aesthetic," Dorian said. "It seems to get close enough for a lot of people."

"You're not a sexbot, though."

"Hate to break it to you like this, but we've kind of had some sex." 

"If you have to call it that." He cringed at the memory. 

"Is this a thing where it's tacky to stick your dick in a doll?"

John stared. "Where did you hear that shit?"

Dorian seemed unruffled. "A detective from another squad was arguing with Detective Paul. He didn't approve of Detective Paul's occasional sexual habits."

"Sounds about right. No, look, Dorian— That wasn't it. Isn't it. I'm just..."

"A walking, talking emotional wreck," Dorian suggested.

"Thanks."

"Who might even have some feelings."

John shrugged.

"For me." Dorian just let the statement rest there, not demanding an answer. And it was that that let John meet his calm gaze and let his eyes answer for him.

"Okay," Dorian said quietly. "Should I go?"

"What do _you_ want?" John asked. "In your schema. Where are you?"

"I told you already."

"Then stay." He took Dorian's hand. Dorian followed his pull and moved closer. One of his feet touched John's synthetic foot.

"Do me a favor," Dorian said.

John squinted at him suspiciously.

"Try to remember: I'm not a fake. Okay? I'm not lying to you."

"And you're not a fucking doll," John said. "I know it."

Dorian kissed him, hard, and John felt the dormant energy between them flash back up again. He let Dorian push him onto his back. _'Let', yeah, sure_ , he thought. But either way, it felt good, it felt great, Dorian climbing gradually on top of him as they made out. He was heavy, but not crushingly heavy; he pressed John into the mattress with a warm, living weight.

John rubbed up a couple times against Dorian's belly and made a noise into Dorian's mouth. Dorian made a noise in return, an answer soft and thick with pleasure. 

John felt a wave of self-consciousness, hearing them both. His mind was still too alert, distracting him from his body, and he couldn't help but wonder what Dorian's noise was about. Dorian had promised he wasn't lying, and that meant he wasn't. But...

He tried to chase his thoughts away, letting himself just enjoy the sensation in his lips, kissing deep, and then light, and then lighter still. He ran his hands over Dorian's hair and held his face, stroking his temples, their lips barely touching 

Beneath John's thumbs came a burst of color, a curl of pale blue. But it didn't have the swirling grace of Dorian's usual processing lights—it faded in and out, flickering randomly, the blue flashing bright almost to white once or twice in random bursts along both sides of Dorian's face. Dorian's lips curved against John's. His eyes were closed. 

"You okay?" John said, pulling back slightly.

"Hmm?" Dorian leaned down after him and kissed him again with a dreamy smile. "Yeah, man."

He kissed his way to John's neck for a minute, and moved his lips and just the edges of his teeth along it in an uneven, unpracticed way that went right to John's stomach, and then to his cock.

John held him tight and made an appreciative sound. Something was easing, in his mind and body both, and he found himself unclenching from the expectation of another panic. Dorian wasn't taking pains to perform a show. Dorian was Dorian, his face was alive with the emotions he felt, as always, and his voice changed the ways it always did—and more, too, more than John had ever heard before. But there were none of the sexbot touchstones or theatrics. It was different, doing this. It was strange. And John relished it. 

He held Dorian's shoulders and pushed up against him. Couldn't quite get the leverage, so he shifted his grip to Dorian's ribs, then the firm curves of his ass, pulling hard as he thrust. His cock rubbed and dragged, rasping slightly against the friction of Dorian's stomach. 

Dorian thrust once in return, and John hissed. "Wait, wait." He worked a hand in between them and stroked himself a few times, soothingly. "Too dry."

"Oh." Dorian pulled back, looking down at their bodies in consternation. John's skin was starting to dampen with sweat and his cock with a drop of pre-come, but of course he was the only one. "Sorry."

He looked hesitant, his grip on John going slack. John shook his head. "Nah, just lemme—"

He shoved Dorian off him and flopped inelegantly over to the edge of the bed and off, padding over to the old calibrator in the corner. He really needed to surplus that thing. "I started having so many bad days with the damn joint...so I put an extra...somewhere..." He rummaged. "Ha!" At last he grabbed it and lifted it up, the little screwtop liniment bottle with the label scraped off.

"Lubricant?" Dorian asked, interested. "What's the chemical base? Not that I have any intolerances."

"Here." John winged it at him, and he caught it with one darting hand. "See for yourself."

Dorian unscrewed the top as John climbed back into bed. He dabbed a finger into it, a little flicker of light dancing at the tip. 

"Olive oil," he said, and gave a wry smile. "Figures."

"You got no one to blame but yourself, buddy." John grabbed it, sloshed some into his palm, hastily recapped the bottle, and slicked the stuff over his flagging cock. It responded, filling out in his hand. Dorian watched him, his smile lingering but his eyes heavy-lidded.

"Here," he said, and took John's oily hand to pull him down again. John dropped the bottle and went. Dorian kissed him, and then turned to take two of John's oily fingers into his mouth.

Oh. Oh, that was...strange. There was no spit, but there was a moving tongue and a gentle, varying, suction-like pressure. Not like a vacuum cleaner. Not like a human mouth. Weird. And so good. His cock pulsed, and he adjusted himself to slide against Dorian's belly again. "Yeah—" he heard himself saying as he pushed harder, and braced himself. "—oh yeah—" But then—"Ow." He dug a hand under his left leg, pulled out the stupid bottle jabbing him there.

"Got it," Dorian said, releasing John's fingers. He plucked the bottle away and rolled to set it on the nightstand. "You know," he said as he went, while John admired the way his back tapered to his waist, "not that you'll need it for your leg anymore, but I gotta get you some better stuff than this."

"Uh," said John, forcibly keeping himself from touching his own cock as it ached for attention. "What, I—You got a problem with my grocery selections now?"

Dorian shrugged—the graceful movement was mesmerizing—and he smiled back at John over his shoulder. "Don't feel bad, John. You drink terrible wine, too."

John jumped on him, not afraid to fall with his whole weight, and Dorian's smile disappeared in the mattress. John pressed him down like a wrestler. A naked, poorly-trained wrestler. He was sure Dorian was peacefully letting himself be mauled, like a lion with a hound dog, but he didn't care. He growled into Dorian's ear and kissed the back of his neck, nosing at his hair.

Dorian made a long, pleased humming sound, and John stretched out on top of him. His cock was still comfortably slippery; he thrust against Dorian with easy rolls of his hips, his nerves singing from his balls all the way up to his head. He chased the feeling, blissful and panting. If he braced both knees, he could make long, slick strokes along the cleft of Dorian's ass, again, and once more, the warmth pulling at him. 

He had Dorian by the shoulders, pushing, his eyes almost shut. Dorian shifted under him just the slightest bit, his thighs moving, and John's cock pressed further in, nudging hard, just on the verge of penetrating. 

John froze.

"John?" Dorian said, turning his head.

He managed to caress Dorian's shoulders awkwardly, but still couldn't move—not either direction.

"John," Dorian said again, more carefully. "It's within safe parameters. I mean, it's okay." And when John didn't reply: "I want you to. I consent. Enthusiastically."

He was starting to sound so worried. John managed to huff out a breath and let himself relax across Dorian's back, kissing the side of his face.

"Got it," he croaked. 

His cock throbbed, still totally up for it. But certain things were still too near, certain words rustling at the base of John's skull—Paul, and whoever Paul's friend was, and Shaw's showroom, and long-lost Vanessa, and the entire weekend they'd just escaped from, everything suddenly shoving down on him like a compressor. 

Easing back slightly, he pressed his cock to Dorian's thighs, slipping between them. The remaining oil was just enough, slick but warm with a touch of friction. He pulled back and thrust, thrust again harder, and this time the tip of his cock pushed against the hot softness of Dorian's balls. His mind stopped finally, and let go. 

He shivered and groaned, and fucked between Dorian's thighs, Dorian raising his hips up, murmuring under him and reaching back to touch him. John said things and made noises and didn't listen to himself. He didn't rush, either. He just fell into it, Dorian with him. Eventually he braced himself, hammering hard, and when he came it was a relief all the way from the soles of his feet. The sudden, furtive orgasms of the weekend faded in memory, and he collapsed on top of Dorian with a sweaty, breathless laugh.

"That was great," Dorian said. His voice sounded a little wobbly. John worried for a second that he'd gotten hurt or something, which seemed weird, but when he rolled off and saw Dorian's face, he noticed the look in his eyes and the way his lips were working.

The back of John's neck prickled. He ignored it, but pulled Dorian to him instead of trying to say anything. He squeezed him and kissed the side of his head with a smack.

"I'll need a full charge cycle tonight," Dorian said after a while, his voice still a little small. "I think I kind of overextended."

"Yeah," John said sleepily. "Me too. I can give you a ride home in a little bit."

"That's the first time you haven't called it 'Rudy's'."

"Huh." John rubbed his face absently against Dorian's hair to scratch an itch without freeing his arms. 

"Hey John?"

"In a minute."

"What about Detective Stahl?"

He didn't sound worried, just curious. But John pushed him back a little anyway to look him in the eye. "I like Valerie," he said. "But, you know. If we meant to give it a real chance, we would have. And she's really happy with what's-his-name."

"Jake."

"Besides." John yawned. "You can do her voice pretty well, can't you?"

Dorian looked at him, his eyes widening into a stare. John had never seen him speechless before without some kind of physical trauma knocking his speech centers offline.

"Your face!" John said, losing his grip on his deadpan expression. He laughed and laughed, rolling back and forth.

" _Oh, John,_ " Dorian said throatily in Valerie's voice. " _Ohhhh, Johnnn. Johnnnnnn, you're such an asssshoooooooooole._ " 

John scrubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands. "Okay! Okay. You have to promise. Never ever do that again. Anymore."

He sighed and hiccuped and sat up on the edge of the bed. He'd need some pants for the car, a shirt. Shoes. He could see some of the above strewn around, but not all. Dorian of course picked his way through the room easily, snagging his own clothes without any trouble.

By the time they finally left, the sky was dark. The rain had slacked off, but the lights still reflected off the wet surfaces in deep gleaming rainbows.

John was tired and euphoric, steering lazily with one hand. "Hey, you know... I still have that back room."

"With the trophies?"

"I could move a couple of them over." He swallowed. "If you want."

Dorian was quiet for a long time, looking thoughtfully out through the windshield.

"Maybe not right now," he said at last.

"Sure, whatever," John said casually.

"No, John. It's not that I don't want to." He looked over at John with a peaceful smile that made John wonder what sort of euphoric tiredness he might be feeling. "I just think we'll both need our own space. If this is going to keep on."

John shrugged, but inside he really liked the sound of that. "Yeah, makes sense, I guess."

"I wouldn't say no to a drawer, though," Dorian said.

"For all your designer underpants."

"And a hanger for a uniform."

"Uh huh."

"And a spot for a portable charger, in case of emergency."

"At least you can't eat me out of house and home," John said, rolling his eyes, the unfamiliar lightness in his chest making him wonder if he was remembering how it felt to be happy.

  


**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song "If I Only Had a Heart", in _The Wizard of Oz_.
> 
> Enormous thanks to M and K and M for all their help! \o/


End file.
